Balance Point
by Val Evenstar
Summary: Things are never as they seem. Alex is pulled into an adventure where enemies and friends are not what he thinks, danger and mystery abound, the past is the key to the future, and the stakes are ... well, the fate of the world of course!
1. Prologue

_Author's Note:_ Yet again I have found that if you want to read good fanfiction, you must write it yourself. Sigh. While at first the plot may seem typical, I can guarantee you that no one has done it like this before. This will be in true epic superspy style, and it will be good. Anthony Horrowitz could do it better, of course, but hey - that's cuz he's the author! In the meantime, enjoy and please let me know what you think!

**Prologue**

It is a fact little known that the country of Russia is run by the KGB. Or, as they are known since the fall of the Soviet Union, the FSB (Federal Security Service). The president and his closest advisors are all former officers of the ranks; the ministers in control of arms, agriculture, law and economy have similar backgrounds. In fact, the most powerful politicians in the nation all come from the same city – St. Petersburg – as the president himself. The KGB has evolved from an instrument of terror and intelligence to become the government itself.

An article to this effect was published in The Economist on August 25, 2007. The author, although he chose to publish anonymously, was found mysteriously dead two weeks later, presumably the victim of a car accident in the city's crowded motorways. But there were many people who read the article. Most laughed it off as a conspiracy theory. Others believed it, but knew that Russia, no longer a world power, was fortunate enough if its democracy could survive the next decade; the aging agents in its power positions could pose no real threat to the free world.

There were also some who, upon reading the column, nodded grimly before dropping the paper into a wastebasket. The article would be stored in electronic format in a massive database, and the papers in the wastebasket would all be incinerated at the end of the day.

Among these people were a middle-aged man in a grey suit and a black-haired woman in sensible – to some, downright ugly – shoes. They were Alan Blunt, head of MI6 Special Operations, and his second in command, Mrs. Jones.

Less than thirteen months later, the article would appear on Alan Blunt's desk again, only this time in a manila folder containing a compilation of many sensitive documents. Underneath it was another folder, which he gingerly but neatly moved out of the way for the present. It was not really needed; he had memorized the contents.

Mr. Blunt opened the top folder and glanced over the documents. He looked across his desk at Mrs. Jones.

"We are running out of time," she stated.

"I know," Blunt replied. She knew that he knew this; what she was really asking for was his decision.

"As of the moment," she said, after a minute of silence, "we don't have enough information to determine the importance of this threat."

"If it even is one," Blunt pointed out. It was unnecessary; both he and Mrs. Jones knew full well that this was one matter that would not be underestimated.

"Our best agents have returned empty handed. We have tried bribery, but even in the corrupt bureaucracy that is Russia, there have been none that know enough or are willing to inform us. The Americans, of course, have been equally unsuccessful, and are hindered because they wish to ostensibly maintain the idea that they are no longer in a Cold War. Russia, however, does not think the same way."

Mr. Blunt nodded, a sign for her to continue.

"But we have one man who may be able to tell us what we need."

Blunt quietly opened the second folder, and stared for a minute at the colour photograph on top. "We will speak to him," he said. "And, if necessary, we shall use him."

Mrs. Jones had expected this. "He is a loose cannon," she warned. "We have no way of controlling him. He is too dangerous to be released under any circumstances."

"Any?" Blunt inquired, his face showing the first hint of emotion as he sighed, deep lines creasing in his forehead.

Mrs. Jones stopped sucking her peppermint as she saw for the first time the true, destructive gravity of the situation. "You believe it is that bad?" she asked, finally.

"I hope to God not," Blunt answered fervently, than collected himself. "We will, I hope, have no need of his... services. But the information we want he will not give without a considerable incentive. His own life appears to be of no consequence to him, and unfortunately we need him too much to dispose of him. Prison he would eventually escape; but there may be one way to reach him."

Reaching under the photograph, he pulled out a document. It was a transcript of a conversation. Mrs. Jones silently seethed. It was a conversation that should not have been recorded.

"Alex Rider," said the man, "may be of a great help to us."

Mrs. Jones stood, furious. Without a word she turned on her heel and left the office. Blunt knew full well how she felt about involving Alex in another mission, especially one as dangerous as this. And with a man as dangerous as this.

Mr. Blunt watched her go. She knew he would do as he said. There was no other way, something they both knew. He sighed, stood up, and closed the manila folder over the hard blue eyes staring out of the picture. It was time for lunch.


	2. Ghosts of Missions Past

_**Chapter One: Ghost of Missions Past**_

**Seven months previous**

"Comrade Gregorovich," said the man, "What a pleasant surprise." The truth was, he was neither surprising or particularly pleased. For one, if he had been surprised by Yassen Gregorovich, it would only be for a fraction of a second, and then he would be dead. And being alone and unarmed except for a decorative sword which the younger man could undoubtedly use more effectively than him was never pleasant, especially since the man in question was the world's best assassin.

The cold blue eyes facing him never even blinked as their owner inclined his head ever so slightly, acknowledging the other man's presence. This did not please Sergei Romanov, who, like many maniacal villains had a very sensitive if somewhat inflated sense of self esteem. Like many power-crazed people, he innately had a strong dislike of anyone more powerful than himself, especially if they held it in casual disregard as did Gregorovich, a trait which made Romanov both admire and envy him. It also made him the perfect man for Romanov's plans. At least, this is what Sergei thought.

"I have heard of your work, Comrade," Romanov said instead of introducing himself. Introductions were unnecessary. They both knew of the other, and even if Yassen had no convenient network of agents to produce neat manila folders with every scrap of information about Romanov, he certainly had ample ways to find out about the other man.

Yassen inwardly sighed and waited for Romanov to get on to things he didn't know. Of course the man had heard of his work. He didn't need to describe in glowing terms of 'service to the Rodina' as he was doing now.

"Your training with the KGB, at such a young age! And then Scorpia, of course, but that isn't to say you haven't always been there when your country needed you. Invaluable, invaluable to Russia, I say! Comrade Putin would not be in office today were it not for you. Comrade...."

Yassen was annoyed, though by looking at him one may have thought him a statue. This man knew too much – but then, most FSB agents knew unfortunately too much about his history; but they were at least mostly dead. This was why he had left the KGB for Scorpia, though that fact had only become known three years after he had truly joined Scorpia and left behind some of the unpleasantness that came with being a double agent. He would rather be a free agent, and with Scorpia at least he had no more ties to the ever-changing Russian political system. He had, in fact, helped to change it – albeit inadvertently, at least on his part – several times, as Romanov was enthusiastically reciting to him. Strange that he should mention what Yassen's assassinations had done to put Putin in power and not the ones that had removed Gorbachev from it. But this was the FSB did; it told you what you presumably wanted to hear and then used you, and, ideally, paid you a great deal. Yassen was fine with this. But for a brief moment he did consider killing Romanov, because he was boring him, wasting his time, and wrong about a great deal of things. Patience, though, he decided. Don't do anything rash, like so many of your employers, or it'll get you killed.

"The Soviet Union," he spoke, finally, "fell in 1991. Please do not address me as comrade."

Romanov stopped talking, much to Yassen's relief. Perhaps, thought the assassin, we can now conduct business. He watched carefully, however, for Romanov's reaction.

The man faked a smile. "Of course. Mr. Gregorovich. Please forgive the habit of long years, and, if I daresay, a glorious era."

Yassen said nothing.

"There are many, no doubt, who wish to bring this era back. But there are many who believe democracy is the way of the future. However, all agree that Russia is no longer what she once was. The country is falling into disrepair. We have a strong leader; perhaps he will save us. But I have a way that will - "

He stopped as Gregorovich raised a finger, a commanding gesture. One that could also, he mused, kill him quite easily. He must remember to tread carefully.

"Who will I have to kill?" Yassen said.

Romanov considered. The younger man had not yet heard his vision; perhaps Romanov had read him wrong. Despite his long service to the KGB and FSB, the assassin might not be appealed to by patriotism. A more professional approach was in order. In a way, Romanov was grateful for this; it would make business easier, though it would be harder to trust Gregorovich if his loyalties did not indeed lie with his country as Romanov had assumed. Not that he would trust Gregorovich anyway.

"Many," Romanov replied, not prepared yet to part with too much information. "Some will be difficult. Others, not so."

"An example?" asked Gregorovich.

It couldn't hurt, thought Romanov. "The Iranian faqih will be the most difficult. You will be paid one million for him alone."

Yassen considered. He had said he did not care who he killed, as long as he was paid. This was not entirely true. There were other factors to consider, such as the chances of survival later, the strength and resources of the forces that might want revenge, and the impact it might have on his future as an assassin.

Killing the Supreme Leader of Iran would not be the best of career moves. True, it would boost his reputation, but he was already the best, so it could not help him much. It would just put him at the top of MI6's and the CIA's Most Wanted list – providing that he wasn't there already – and double the bounties on his head. And it would possibly cause an international war, which would not be good for business. People have legal excuses to kill each other in wars, and do not require his services as much when they can simply drop a bomb to to the same job. And if Romanov was telling the truth, it was proof that he was stupid, and while Yassen had not always managed to work for sane employers, he at least tried to pick relatively intelligent ones. Romanov had just asked him to assassinate Archduke Ferdinand, a bit of information a good number of countries would pay well for. Much better than this job, in all probability. It seemed Romanov was already paying Yassen in advance...

"And for the rest?" he asked.

"A total of two million." Romanov looked at him expectantly.

Yassen rose.

"No," he said. Work for Damian Cray started in a week, and it would pay more. Also, it would keep Yassen away from the FSB and off the international political stage. He had an idea that Cray's work dealt with less visible subjects.

Romanov's eyes widened. "No?" he repeated.

"No," Yassen confirmed, and walked out the door.

Romanov stood stunned for an instant. Then he tapped a button on his concealed radio.

"Kill him," he ordered.

But killing Yassen Gregorovich is easier said than done.

* * *

Alex Rider heard the knock at the door and knew it was bad news.

"I'll get it, Alex!" he heard Jack call, and groaned. He hoped that her inevitable tirade would convince the MI6 men to leave him alone. For once Alex was finding a weekend of homework more appealing than a free flight to .... wherever... to be given gadgets, chased around, shot at, thrown out of the sky, or shot up on a rocket.

He smiled as he heard Jack slam the door a second after she had opened it.

"Alex! It's those men again!" She sounded exasperated, and angry.

Alex groaned again, this time louder. He didn't want to let them in any more than Jack did, but... this was the government, and despite the fact that it was supposed to be protecting his rights to, say, get an education, it seemed to think that being a superspy was a better teacher than the ones at Brookland.

"I'll be down in a minute," he called. He took his sweet time. If MI6 could inconvenience him a lot, a small inconvenience was no doubt a fair way to repay them.

Jack was still standing by the door when Alex came down. "You know I don't like this," she said.

"Neither do I."

"Then send them away! Don't let them drag you off again," she begged.

"You know I can't, Jack. They'll just keep coming," he said heavily as he opened the door.

It was Agent Crawley.

"Hello Alex, Miss Starbright. May I come in?"

Alex nodded warily, and Jack reluctantly stepped aside so he could enter.

"I'm afraid that I shall have to ask a small favour of Alex," Crawley said when they were seated. Jack rolled her eyes expressively. Alex smiled, and had they been alone he would've made a crack about her acting her age.

"We have reason to believe that an ... acquaintance of his may be able to provide us with some rather important information. We believe Alex can convince him to help us out. It's a simple request, really; we'll take Alex to see him tonight, and have him back by tomorrow morning at latest. Probably it will only take a few hours, as the man in question is rather... laconic, and if he tells nothing within the first few minutes he won't tell anything at all."

"You want Alex to help you with an interrogation?" Jack confirmed before Alex could ask who this 'acquaintance' was. Not that he didn't have his suspicions.

"That's correct. He will be well protected, and of course everything will be perfectly legal," he said, doubtless reading the skepticism in Jack's question.

"Well-protected?" Jack jumped on the words. "Exactly how dangerous is this man?"

Only the most dangerous man on earth, Alex thought with a start. But it couldn't be... surely he hadn't survived....Alex had seen him die, hadn't he? And Mrs. Jones had just about confirmed it, too....

"He is a criminal, so we are taking precautions, Miss Starbright. But I assure you you have no need to worry. I'm afraid I can't tell you any more than that, though."

"I'll go," Alex said. They turned to look at him.

"Are you sure? You know what happened the other times," Jack said.

Alex grinned. "Come on, now. I believe him," For once, he added under his breath. "I'll be back before tomorrow, I promise. This shouldn't take long."

Jack sighed and held up her hands in mock surrender. "Fine. Apparently I don't have the security clearance to understand, but... take care of yourself, Alex. And you," she turned to Crawley, and Alex couldn't help but admire the way she stared down the agent, "make sure he's back by tomorrow."

"Yes, ma'am," was all the MI6 man could come up with.

Alex laughed. "Don't worry so, Jack. It's not like I'm going to see a ghost."

She swatted at him playfully, then sighed. "Well, then, off with you," she said.

Alex went up to fetch his jacket, then hugged Jack goodbye to steady her nerves and got in the car with Crawley.

He waited for the BMW to start moving before he asked, "Who is he?"

Crawley didn't need to ask who Alex was referring to. And even though he was expecting it, the two words still took Alex by surprise.

"Yassen Gregorovich."

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry this chapter is a little lame. But it is neccessary. Action will start soon, though, to accompany the mystery! Any and all suggestions or comments are more than welcome!


	3. Discovery

**A/N:** Weekly updates from now on. Enjoy! Feedback is appreciated :)

**Chapter 3: Discovery**

**_Five months Previous_**

Tulip Jones never wore heels. They were, in a word, nonsensical. And she had, in her earlier days as a field agent, had a very unpleasant experience with stiletto heels that were literally stilettos, and they were not ones that Smithers had designed. She had worn heels only once since then, at her wedding, but now wearing them was unthinkable. She preferred shoes that were black or dark brown, leather, not too expensive but not commonplace either, with rubber soles. Compartments that hid weapons and transmitters were optional, but she went to Smithers for those, not Harrod's.

The ones she wore now were her particular favorites. She had owned them for a few years now, and they were extremely comfortable. She could run a good distance in them, too, as she had been forced to find out on one occasion. And they let her keep her balance easily when she needed to deliver a roundhouse kick. There were a few other rather interesting things they could do, but right now she preferred them because they were silent. Not that stealth was of particular importance to her right now – the six SAS soldiers beside her banished any chances of that – but it was a comfort thing.

The group stopped in front of a plain white door, windowless, in a building full of such doors. Mrs. Jones stepped aside and let the SAS men open the door; three of them entered, weapons at the ready. Then she stepped inside, subconsciously feeling the reassuring weight of the gun at her side.

It was a plain room, with pale walls and no window. There was a single chair and a small desk. Books – mostly language workbooks and literary classics – were neatly ordered on the desk. There was a single pencil lying on a blank page of an open notebook.

If you looked closely, you could perhaps see that the furniture was made of plastic. But you would not be able to tell that if a certain gas was introduced to the room, it would immediately loose its structural strength and, for all intents and purposes, melt. Even the hospital equipment was made of the same material. There was, in fact, only one metal object in the room.

It was a pair of handcuffs, and they were titanium. They were around the hands of a man who was even more fair-skinned than usual; he had not seen the sun in some days. His hair was light blonde, and had grown out slightly from its normal military-style cut. He was clothing was beige, as colourless as the room, making his eyes even more startling. They were blue, very blue, but cold and flat. They showed no reaction when Mrs. Jones walked in, registered no emotion at the weapons pointed at him.

Mrs. Jones wished she had the same calm. On reading the specifications for this cell and the precautions taken with this prisoner, she had told Smithers that perhaps it was all a bit too much. But now that she was here she was glad for Smithers' failsafes. Still, she was sure that it was entirely possible for Yassen Gregorovich to kill her even with both hands tied behind his back and a still severe wound in his chest. Fortunately for her, though, he had no reason to kill her. Or so she hoped.

But she was here on business – private business, it so happened. MI6 would not hear this conversation; the SAS men with her would not speak of it.

"Did you speak to Alex Rider about his father?" she asked, with no preamble.

If the Russian was surprised he hid it well. Not a muscle on his face moved; he was seated on the bed the same as before. The monitors attached to his body showed no sign of change. Mrs. Jones was watching his eyes, though, and for a second she thought she saw a flash of something...

She stood there, waiting, and for five minutes there was silence. She turned to leave.

The door opened; she started to walk through.

"Mrs. Jones," Gregorovich said, quietly. She stopped, and motioned to the men to shut the door. No need to be careless.

"Yes?"

There was a pause as she looked at him.

"Is Alex well?"

A curious question. Mrs. Jones considered. Alex was fine, physically, but there was something troubling him. Something, perhaps, that Yassen had said to him.

"Yes," she answered, and noted the small change in his eyes before leaving the room.

* * *

Alex looked up from the paper. "You're bringing me to see him based on three words?" he asked, slightly incredulous.

"It seems Yassen has some interest in you," Crawley said, as if it was a cheerful thought.

"Like anyone he's ever been _interested_ in is still alive," Alex grumbled. "And, before you say something else, I know why. He thought my dad worked for Scorpia, and he wanted me to find them. That's what he told me." Too late, he realized that he had never told this to MI6 before – at least, he hadn't _exactly_ said that Yassen was the reason he had gone to find Scorpia in the first place.

Crawley reached out and took the paper Alex was waving around, then neatly filed it in his briefcase. "He worked with your father for a considerable time. We don't how close they were -" Alex snorted, angry at the idea that John Rider could have become _friends_ with a killer like Yassen - "or how you, as John Rider's son, could influence him."

Alex fell silent, and stared out the tinted bulletproof window at the London suburbs rolling by. Crawley made sense, he had to admit. Yassen had told Alex to stay out of the business. It was no place for a boy, he'd said. Later, he had refused to kill Alex, even at the cost of his own life. Or so it had seemed at the time.

"Why didn't you kill him?" Alex mused aloud.

Crawley tried his best to look shocked. Alex grimaced; the man would never win a Golden Globe. "Alex! This is Britain! A man, even one as dangerous as Gregorovich, has a right to a fair trial."

Alex wondered when he had grown so jaded that he was skeptical of Crawley's explanation. "You didn't have to save him," he insisted. "He was dying. If the paramedics had been just a bit slower, or the surgeon had been inexperienced...." He stopped at the look on Crawley's face, which was one of genuine distaste now.

"Alex," he said sternly. "The paramedics do not differentiate between teenage spies and assassins. Neither do doctors. Not helping him, no matter how... convenient...would be wrong."

Alex heard the unspoken sentence: but it is nothing MI6 hasn't done. So they must have had a reason for keeping Yassen alive. "How long have you known about this Russian thing?" he asked.

"We've been watching our Russian friends for some time now. We've never stopped, actually. Hard fellows to trust, ever since the Cold War. But this particular case came to attention about a year ago."

So that made sense. The only reason Yassen was alive was for the very purpose Alex was visiting; to provide MI6 with information about a series of suspicious happenings that may or may not be connected. Alex wished he had more information, but he knew Crawley wouldn't tell him.

And how could he be sure Yassen would know anyway? The man worked for Scorpia, but surely there were other Scorpia agents and double agents they could use if Scorpia was the agency behind the problems. Or maybe it was because he was Russian.... but Yassen had never seemed like a patriot to him. He cared only about the money, or so he'd told Alex. Cray had made it sound like he was helping Russia by ridding the world of drugs, but Yassen had said nothing to confirm that. Maybe, Alex thought, he had some connection with the Russian Mafiya or intelligence. It was certainly possible; after all, he knew very little about his history, besides what Ash had told him. And hadn't Ash mentioned the Mafiya somewhere? Providing he had been telling the truth, Alex recalled bitterly.

_In a way, you and Yassen had a lot in common. _Alex rejected the thought. He could never be the cold-blooded killer Yassen was; he had even tried, and failed. _Find_ _Scorpia, and you will find your destiny._ What had the Russian meant? Alex had assumed he wanted Alex to know about his father. But it was MI6, not Scorpia, who had told him the truth in the end. Though if Alex hadn't gone to Scorpia, he may never have known. Perhaps Yassen had wanted Alex to become an assassin like him, if they were really as alike as Ash had made it seem. But before he had tried to keep Alex away from the spy world instead of making him a part of it.

Alex sighed. Crawley was right; there was no doubt Yassen cared about what happened to him. But why? Because of John Rider? Because of Scorpia? Or because maybe in some twisted way Alex reminded him of himself? Obviously he didn't care that much, though, or he wouldn't have killed Ian Rider - which was, after all, the event that had started Alex out on the whole spy thing in the first place. To say nothing of leaving Alex in a ring with a mad bull.

Whatever the reason, there was no way Alex was going to treat the Russian like one of his father's old friends. They didn't exactly have the greatest reputation, for one, and for another, Yassen was just plain dangerous. Alex had seen him kill, multiple times, and what scared him the most was the utter coldness with which the assassin did his job. Not even a second of hesitation. Inhuman. Unnatural. Not a thought of how ...

Is this how his father had been? He had, if Ash and MI6 were to believe, trained Yassen. Was his father also a man who could .... Alex refused to complete that thought. John Rider was different. He was a solder and a patriot, doing what he did because he believed in his country and that by doing what he did he made the world a safer place. Even if it meant training killers. But Yassen would gun down a man for dropping a box, or stop to kill three agents while he was escaping an ambush.

Alex sighed. At least, he was sure, he would be back before midnight. He couldn't see that there was a way Yassen would tell MI6 anything just because he was there.

He should have known better. MI6 had never had him back before midnight.


	4. Snakes, Secrets and Sarcasm

**Chapter 3: Snakes, Secrets and Sarcasm**

_One month previous_

The restaurant was subtly lit, the low lights falling gracefully on the sparkling silverware and porcelain plates. Evening gowns shimmered and candles gave off mellow scents as a quintet played Bach. The service was good and the food was excellent. It was a place that spoke of wealth and influence, where the nation's powerful came to wine and dine.

Among the diners was a man with a family. He was, in fact, a grandfather, with no less than five fine grandsons, a fact he was always proud to share. One of his daughters worked in the ministry of finance, and one of his sons was a well respected lawyer. He himself was a member of Parliament, and had been for over thirty years. He was a Conservative, and he unfailingly voted with his party, which was one reason he still had a seat despite the party's declining support. He was also an excellent debater, though his age had started to somewhat limit the length of his speeches.

For the most part, he did not care what he argued for as long as it was approved by his party. But there was one issue in particular that he staunchly and brilliantly fought for. He firmly believed that chemical and biological weapons research must not be allowed to continue. However, in the age when nuclear weapons posed the greatest danger, he had been mostly ignored. True, the government in principle agreed with him, but there were more pressing issues at stake, the fate of the Western world among them. But now that the chances of nuclear attacks were significantly reduced, he had finally had more success. Quotas and agreements to limit research were passed; summits were held and polite promises exchanged.

Now the European Council was in session, and Harold Kent had been asked to present. He was excited. He had just uncovered some new evidence of activities in Russia that would convince the EU that stricter regulations were in order. The danger from chemical weapons was very real, especially in the wrong hands.

Kent, however, had been careless. He did not know what he had stumbled upon, and he had never, even in his long years of service to the Crown, encountered an enemy like this before. In fact, he didn't even know that the man was his enemy. Tonight he would find out. If he managed to make the rather esoteric connection in the seconds before his death.

He did not know this, of course. Only one person in the room did. She was, at the moment, sitting on an antique wooden chair, legs crossed, playing the flute. Like the other woman in the quintet, she was in a black evening gown accented by a pearl necklace and a pair of medium high heels. Her name was Chelsie Ling, and she was known to a very few as Cobra, though she traveled most often under the alias of Kate Nguyen. She had black hair and eyes at the present moment and was of medium height, and slim. She looked Chinese but was in fact Tibetan, and was perhaps in her thirties.

She was not watching Kent, or at least it would not seem that she was. Besides, she had no need to watch him. He was enjoying a main course of beef bordeaux with a fine red wine, and chatting amiably with a fellow MP and old friend. Chelsie knew that he preferred not to discuss work matters outside of the office, but still was recording their conversation via hidden microphone in case Kent revealed too much and his friend needed silencing too.

The quintet – two violins, a viola, a cello, and her flute – was now playing Vivaldi. It was a nice piece, a flute concerto arranged for a violin, flute, and quintet. Her fingers moved lovingly across her instrument as she took the flute solo into a descant. The notes threaded through the minor chords, taking on an almost hypnotic quality. Eyes half closed, Chelsie swayed with the music. Talk quieted briefly as the haunting notes filled the air. Finally, she returned to the theme and the strings came back in. There was a smattering of applause, which she acknowledged with a slight bow, and the music and talk continued.

Kent did not even notice when he had been bitten. Thirty seconds later, his blood had undergone total defibrination. In less than a minute, he suffered an intercerebral hemorrhage. He convulsed once, confused, and then his face fell to the table and he was still.

"Oh dear," asked his friend. "Are you quite all right?" Then he felt for a pulse. "Eh? You're not dead, are you, Harold?" A woman at a nearby table screamed.

A minute later the maitre d' arrived with two waiters. Kent was dead indeed, but they would not find the almost invisible fang marks on his ankle until much later. They called the police, and guests began to leave the restaurant.

In shocked silence, the quintet set aside their instruments began gathering up their music. They left their card with the maitre d' and went to their next engagement, a private party at an old residence, early.

If the diners had been looking closely, they may have seen a lithe dark shape slide across the floor among the shadows. They would have been most surprised if they had seen it slither into the silver tube of a flute that was lying with one end in shadow, apparently forgotten as its owner folded sheets of music. It was still inside when she picked it up and zipped it in its case, and left the restaurant.

Chelsie Ling smiled to herself.

She loved music.

* * *

Yassen was annoyed when he regained consciousness to find his hands once again cuffed behind his back. Was it really necessary to use sleeping gas to knock him out every time before they opened the door? He hadn't killed anyone the entire time he'd been there. Didn't the British have something where they let out prisoners early for good behaviour?

Oh well. They were a strange lot. They'd saved his life, though he still wasn't sure why, and then kept him unconscious during a good part of his recovery, and not purely for medical reasons. Then they'd even given him some semblance of physical therapy, and he supposed he owed to them his current state of health. He expected that soon he would be killed, unless there was a reason they needed him alive. He couldn't think of one, but there was always the chance that they needed him to kill someone, though if MI6 let him out of here and gave him a gun, they were far stupider than he had ever guessed.

He sat up and wondered briefly who his visitor would be this time. He had only had a few in the months he had been here, and all of them were MI6 agents. So this would probably be another agent. Yassen sighed inwardly; he should really escape soon. But he had to admit that whoever had designed this cell was rather clever. He had been told that all the furniture could be instantly melted, so there was little he could use. He had a vague plan, but not enough information yet. He knew he was in or near London so he supposed he might be in Vauxhall Cross, one of the MI6 offices. It was, unfortunately, not one he had had reason to enter in the past, so he knew nothing of the building's layout, though he guessed he was underground. The guards' schedules he knew, and what they were armed with, but he needed to know more about the vehicles available before he escaped.

At any rate, he needed to wait for the right time. MI6 had been gracious enough to give him an edited copy of the London Times on weekends, so he knew a bit of what was going on in the world and a lot about new decorating ideas for the fall and the best way to fold napkins for high tea. What he really wanted to know, of course, was if Scorpia really thought he was dead. He hoped a long enough absence would confirm it to them. Yassen was rather enjoying the idea of being on his own again, providing of course he managed to escape. Maybe he would even retire. There were only two ways out of the business, someone had once told him. Either be killed or make everyone believe you've been killed.

There were many footsteps in the corridor now, and Yassen stopped his musings and waited for them to open the door. Seven men and two women, he thought. One of the women is shorter than the other.

The door opened, and three SAS agents entered – routine is going to get them killed, Yassen thought humorlessly – along with Mr. Blunt and Mrs. Jones. So either the other woman was waiting outside or there were four SAS guards this time.

"Three killings have occurred in the past two months. We have reason to believe the FSB is involved," Blunt said almost immediately.

So they wanted information from him? Well, if they were serious, they would have to pay him.

"The first, a Chinese chemist, was found dead together with his acupuncture therapist, killed with something only slightly wider than one of the needles. The second was a British MP who was about to reveal some important findings on chemical weapons development. He was bitten by a Western Brown Snake in one of London's best restaurants. The last was found two nights ago; a vice-president in a minor Egyptian oil company, shot with a Parker-Hale M85 from 875 meters."

Yassen was puzzled. Blunt was telling him too much; the only reason he would do that was if he was absolutely certain that Yassen would know something about the killings, despite the fact that he had spent the last three months here. He wondered what made the MI6 man believe that.

"We know you still have connections with the FSB, and Scorpia certainly does enough business with them. What can you tell us about these killings?" Mrs. Jones asked. "We need to know who ordered them. And the assassins."

"Remove the bounty on me," Yassen named his price.

Blunt's eyes narrowed as he took in the implications of this statement. The Russian was sure he would escape, otherwise he would not ask for the price on his head to be removed. "You are officially dead," Blunt stated blandly.

"That is my price," Yassen said. So what if the bounty didn't _officially_ apply to him. If he wasn't dead to MI6, it did him no good.

"Perhaps something else can be arranged," Mrs. Jones said. Yassen wondered what she would offer. They obviously needed him alive, but as long as he was here he was as good as dead. And there was no way they would agree to his release. "There is someone with us who you may want to speak to."

The small woman in the hall? Who, Yassen realized with a start, was actually a teenage boy.

"Alex Rider," Mr. Blunt said, "has agreed to speak with you, provided, of course, that you tell us who is behind these killings, and what he is planning."

"And if I don't know?" Yassen asked with a ghost of a smile.

"Then we have no need for you," Blunt said coldly.

Yassen considered. If he told them they would need him again, he was certain. So he would have another chance to get what he wanted. And Alex....had he gone to Scorpia? He thought so. Julia Rothman was dead, he had gathered from a reference in the entertainment section of the Times. Alex must have been involved, and Yassen wanted to know what the boy had found....and there was something he needed to tell the him. He owed John Rider at least that.

"Three killings. Three names. I will tell Alex," he said finally.

Blunt nodded after a moment, his eyes never leaving the harsh blue ones. "Three minutes," he said, and left the room with Mrs. Jones as Alex Rider entered.

* * *

It could have been six months ago; nothing about the Russian had changed, except that he was dressed in nondescript biege and in handcuffs. Strangely, neither this nor the three SAS soldiers with him made Alex feel safer.

"Some people just don't have the grace to stay dead," he observed.

"Good evening, Alex."

Alex glanced around. There was no clock on the wall, and the lights in the hall outside were the sort that never changed throughout the day. Yassen must have read the time off of his watch, or the ones the SAS men were wearing. Alex suppressed a shiver. Creepy. Like this entire situation.

"I'm glad you're not dead," Alex said. "You see, you've caused me a lot of trouble in the last few months. So maybe when you really _are_ dead it'll finally stop."

Yassen almost smiled. "You found Scorpia," he said. "And yet you are here. Why did you come back?"

Alex frowned, envious of the ease with which the assassin took control of the conversation. And puzzled at his need to explain himself to Yassen. "I'm not like you." It was somehow important for him to be able to say that. "I can't kill, not like that. Maniacal plans to takeover the world notwithstanding."

Yassen nodded. "I thought so. That is good, Alex."

"Nice to know," Alex said, shocked into sarcasm, "coming from someone who doesn't differentiate between good and evil."

"I am not your enemy, Alex," said the Russian. "Now," he qualified.

"What I told you before is true. I will not kill you. And this is not your life, as you have found. Leave while you still can, little Alex."

Alex wondered if Yassen would change his mind about killing him if he found that John Rider had actually been working for MI6 all along. He wasn't eager to find out, but he wondered anyway if he should tell Yassen.

"What's going on in Russia?" he asked instead, curious.

"They didn't tell you anything?" asked Yassen.

Alex shook his head.

"Good. Do not let them involve you. Not in this."

Now Alex knew he was involved, whether he liked it or not. But wait! Maybe Yassen was trying to trick him, using his curiosity against him.

"Why does no one ever tell me what's going on?" he grumbled. "And please, don't say it's for my safety, because whenever anyone says that I usually end up getting shot at."

"Alex, listen to me."

Alex started to reply but then fell silent when he saw the intensity in the assassin's face.

"War is not something for children. It destroys their lives. Read about it. In Africa, in old Russia. Or just remember. Malagusto – Scorpia sent you there, didn't they? Most of your classmates would have been picked out from a young age, not much older than you. They will have short lives, and unpleasant ones. They do not have a choice, but you do. You have a chance to grow up in a country where you do not have to worry about hunger or poverty or war. There are not many who do. I suggest you take it; there are adults who volunteer for what you do, and they can take care of it. Go to school, Alex. Fall in love, have a family. Don't throw everything away for what will only ruin you in the end."

Alex was silent for a moment. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

"Because you deserve to know. And," Yassen added softly, not looking at Alex,"because your father is not here to tell you himself."

Alex's mind was racing. Why was Yassen saying this? Was it guilt because he had killed Ian Rider, or because he thought he had left Alex's father to die? Or was he trying to undo what he had done by dragging Alex into the spy business? At any rate, he had no right to act like this, like he cared about Alex or his family, who he had killed – or tried to kill – many times. And if destruction was his intent, he had certainly succeeded.

Alex glared at the Russian and tried to decide what to say, but the SAS men were telling him it was time to leave. He looked expectantly at Yassen, remembering what Mr. Blunt and Mrs. Jones had told him.

"Sergei Romanov. Chelsie Ling. Ali Khamenei," Yassen said, voice devoid of emotion.

Alex nodded, and turned to go. There was nothing left to be said. It was finished, except that Alex still had not told Yassen about John Rider. He didn't deserve to know. Alex left knowing for sure that he never wanted to see Yassen again.

He did not know that Yassen wanted the same thing.

* * *

**A/N:** Action starts in earnest in the next chapter. Stay tuned!


	5. Burn

**A/N: **Herein begins the action...hopefully sometime soon I will post on my blog (see homepage link) an explaination of how I feel about writing this and also violence/tragedy in general. For now it will suffice to say that I don't want to make killing seem glamourous. It _isn't_ cool. So that's one reason why my description is a lot less vivid there than it usually is. But anyway - I hope you like how things are progressing. Reviews are, of course, more than welcome :)

**_Chapter Four: Burn_**

**Seven months previous **

They had agreed to meet in a small boathouse just barely inside St. Petersburg. There were not many people who lived in the area. It was dirty, with graffiti on every wall and small questionable looking businesses scattered here and there. Yassen had liked the location because there were only two places Romanov could hide snipers. Romanov liked it because there was a secret FSB stronghold only two blocks away, something the Scorpia man wasn't supposed to know. Romanov had not been expecting Yassen to refuse his offer, but had set precautions in place just in case. He hadn't been particularly thorough in them, because Yassen was only one man and he was ostensibly unarmed. And assassins were notorious for being loners, so any backup arriving would be unlikely.

Romanov would have to learn to be disappointed. He had made his first mistake by allowing Yassen to take him by surprise, as he had by abruptly leaving. The assassin was already clear of the building and the first sniper by the time Romanov had collected himself enough to give the order to kill him.

Yassen had spotted both the snipers on his way to the boathouse. They hadn't moved from where they were last night when he had staked out the meeting place. One was on a nearby rooftop – predictably – and the other was behind an ancient sign, two stories off the ground on the other side of the river, hidden behind the broken plastic. They were in position to take out anyone coming out the door, but they had seen Yassen walking out calmly and assumed all had gone well. They hadn't expected Romanov's order to come: kill him.

And they hadn't expected Yassen to move so fast. Even before the snipers got their orders, his serene walk became a full-out sprint. In seconds he had disappeared from view, hidden in the evening shadows of the building almost next to the one where the first sniper was perched. The gunman swore and radioed his partner. He had lost sight of the target; he might be halfway down the street by now, and the second sniper would have the only chance at a shot, provided he could see the target.

"I've lost him," the other radioed back, and there were thirty seconds of silence as the snipers searched the streets.

"No one just disappears..." the sniper muttered to himself. He heard a stone rattle in the street below and grinned as his eyes strained to see a movement.

So he was right. But he was dead before he could have a chance to enjoy the fact.

The gunmen had been expecting him to be on the street, so Yassen had gone up. There was a fire escape on the building next to the one the sniper was on; he had climbed up and then jumped across to land silently behind the ancient heating units and chimneys that conveniently hid him from the roof's other occupant.

He was supposed to have gone into the meeting with Romanov unarmed, but he had not. Even though Romanov's men had searched him, they had not found the two weapons he took out now. They were thin steel needles about eight inches long, painted black. They were small enough to be hidden in the seams of his dark jeans, and were close enough to the metal rivets near his pockets to be passed over by the searchers, who had expected to feel metal. Yassen clasped them between the first two fingers of his left hand and crept towards the sniper, scooping up a small piece of concrete in his right hand as he did so. He threw the rubble into the street to his right; the sniper stopped muttering to himself and turned his attention to the shadows below.

Yassen darted forward and landed a chop to the temple with his right hand while simultaneously burying the needles in the side of the man's throat. He died without a sound.

Yassen was already on one knee and raising the Dragunov SVD to his shoulder before the dead man's head hit the ground. The sight was calibrated for the low light, and Yassen took aim at the other sniper's position. Although he could not see the other man, hidden behind the sign's broken plastic as he was, Yassen knew where he must be and sent a bullet there.

But by now Romanov's other men were arriving; four on foot from various buildings and three on motorcycles. Two more engines grumbled from the other side of the river. Yassen dropped the gun and moved back into the cover of the chimneys before stripping off his jacket, polo shirt, jeans and shoes to reveal a neoprene wet suit. He had come prepared.

The building had perhaps once been a warehouse, but instead of places for trucks to be loaded, it had docks for boats; two of them. The types of boats that carry cargo down the Neva river are typically medium sized barges. The depth of any docking area would then have to be at least three and a half meters. This was what Yassen was counting on as he ran and dove off the roof of the building, over the scaffolding and pulleys that years ago loaded the boats.

It was early spring but it was the evening and almost dark. An unusual warm front a few days ago had melted the snow and left frozen muddy slush in its place; the river, to the great advantage of the city, never froze over. Some of the smaller canals did, but this one was, for the moment, ice-free. It would probably freeze later in the evening. Yassen estimated that its temperature was about seven degrees, enough to give him quite a shock as he entered it. He immediately rolled over so that his feet, not his head, would impact the bottom. It came sooner than he expected, and was uneven, doubtless covered with rusting junk that had collected over the years. He pushed off quickly and started swimming downriver. It would bring him past both the boathouse and the old KGB outpost which, given Russian efficiency or rather lack thereof, was probably still in use by the FSB. This was good; Yassen had a rental car parked two miles from the boathouse, but was not opposed to borrowing a different vehicle from the FSB. A helicopter would be ideal.

He estimated that the FSB building was about half a mile downriver; with the current helping him, it would mean a ten minute swim. Yassen came up for breath. Given the cold and the distance he would have to swim, he would have to come up at least twice a minute. He glanced around in the dim light before going under again. The boathouse was just on his left.

It was another two minutes before he heard the engine. Sound travels far in the water, so it could have been from a boat anywhere within a mile. But this sound was close; it appeared that the boathouse was not as dysfunctional as its exterior suggested. Yassen immediately swam to the surface for a breath, hoping that the crew would be distracted enough in casting off and not notice him. He glimpsed bright lights reflecting off of plastic and chrome before he went underwater once more.

At this point, the river was little more than ten feet deep and not very wide. But it was almost full dark, and at the bottom of the river Yassen might as well have had his eyes closed. Even in full daylight it would have been difficult to see though the mud and pollutants. He trailed the fingers of one hand along the sandy riverbed, to make sure he did not swim into something. The boat was closing in fast, even though it was much slower than its maximum speed so that its occupants could search the waters.

Now he boat was almost on him; right now he was barely out of the circle of light cast by its searchlights. He could see the twin propellers at the rear. It was a pleasure boat, built for speeding rich men around a lake, not old Russian military as he would have thought. Made in America, most likely, he thought derisively. So much the better for him. Toughened plastic was easier to crack than bulletproof steel. If only he had an explosive.

Yassen waited at the bottom of the river. His lungs were begging for air. He ignored it, waiting for the boat to pass over him. There was no way they could see him; the waters were too murky. Sure enough, the boat quickly passed, its propellers leaving a white trail of churning water in its wake. Yassen swam after it, nearer to the surface now that he could follow the wake instead of having to trust to the riverbed. He took a breath as soon as he dared; the boat was about three hundred meters ahead of him, and had drawn almost even with the building that had once been a KGB outpost. Voices carried to him across the water; the men in the boat were speaking with someone on the shore, confirming his suspicions.

Yassen swam. He came out of the water under cover of a low-bending tree sixty meters away from the FSB building. Any closer and he may have come in contact with whatever surprises the Russian police had left there. He looked towards the structure. It looked like an abandoned distribution center. The last time he had been there, a few dozen square meters in one corner were set up as a small nondescript business that actually never sold anything. But that would be on the side facing the street; on the river side were two entrances. The port area was surrounded by fences, presumably to keep materials in but really to keep unwelcome visitors out. The fence was most likely electrified, though there was no sign. But it had been deactivated to let another boat out of the docks. This one was no pleasure boat, but a modified amphibious assault vehicle. It would be slow to get started but nearly indestructible.

Yassen quickly climbed the fence, careful to keep to the shadows. He was over and pressed to the side of the building by the time the boat had completely reached the river. He waited, suppressing shivers that threatened to take his body. The worst part of swimming in cold water was getting in and getting out. But there was no time to think about that now. Yassen had counted two men helping to launch the boat. They would be armed, and searching the water. He crept around the side of the building once the boat had moved farther downriver.

After taking cover behind a half dozen two-hundred-liter barrels, he cautiously peered out, trying to ascertain the soldiers' positions. Suddenly, without warning, a bright light shone in his face and he ducked. He heard a shout from across the water; it had been the men in the boat who had spotted him. He had seconds before the FSB outpost sent out dozens of men to look for him.

Yassen remembered the stenciling on the barrels: керocин. Kerosene: highly flammable and, similar to oil, spreads out on water to the thickness of an atom. He smiled grimly as his hands moved up to unscrew one of the stoppers in the barrel. Quickly he tipped it on its side and heard the kerosene begin to gush out and down to the river. It was a good thing the water was calm tonight, he thought.

But the FSB boat had turned around by now, and judging by the sound the speedboat too was rapidly approaching. There was now very little time. Yassen sprinted out from behind the barrels, and heard two shots go off. Pistols, not automatic weapons, he thought thankfully.

He saw the first man behind a mooring post, and reached him just as he fired, in his surprise missing wildly. Yassen glimpsed a second soldier as he winded the first with a snap kick to the solar plexus before grabbing him by the throat and spinning him around in front of himself just in time to stop a bullet from the other soldier. Yassen dropped the body and picked up the man's gun from where it had fallen, moving to cover as he did so. Two more bullets whistled past, and Yassen saw the third man. He fired twice in rapid succession; he didn't miss. There was silence on the dock, but the two boats were almost there. They were almost sure to have automatic weapons.

Yassen crouched low over the body of the first man and searched his pockets, taking out two items. The first was a cigarette lighter – Yassen would never have thought he would be so thankful for that particular habit – which he flicked on and tossed into the river. There was a sudden wave of heat as the kerosene ignited and the river started to burn.

Screams issued from the men in the boats as the flames burst up around them. Yassen didn't pause; the fire would burn out soon, and sooner than that more men would come to see what was happening. He ran around the side of the building. There should be a parking lot there, with several vehicles, including motorcycles. In his hand he had a ring of keys taken from the dead guard, and in his black wetsuit he would look like one of Romanov's men.

The Neva burned, and armed men came pouring out of the two riverside exits. But Yassen was already gone.

* * *

"What have we got?" Alan Blunt asked, watching as Mrs. Jones spread four folders on his desk.

"Assuming Yassen Gregorovich is right," she told him, "it's as big as we feared, and we still don't even know the whole story."

Blunt nodded, and opened the first folder. Sergei Romanov, it said. "An active FSB agent, one of Putin's circle of old KGB friends," he recalled. "Currently he is minister of energy in Putin's shadow government, isn't he? Lots of ties to the local Mafiya, and rather rich because of it. He was originally part of the biochemical weapons research program at Ostrov, too, but got reassigned – or paid his way into – the Moscow government. He fell out of favour with Bhreznev, though and was made governor of some Siberian province for his troubles...and presently works as an assistant to a Duma member."

Mrs. Jones nodded. "He is suspected of continued involvement with chemical weapons, possibly also in selling them, though we have no concrete evidence. He is the employer."

"Strange," Blunt muttered.

"Anything undertaken by the Russian government as a whole we would know about," Mrs. Jones said. "But I agree. Romanov acting on his own in something of this scope is not something we have seen from him before. He may still be taking orders from another source. Perhaps he is being used precisely because he is not the type who could manage this by himself, and relies on another for direction."

Blunt nodded. "Then it would be someone high in the government, who does not wish to be known." He opened the second folder.

"Chelsie Ling is an assassin. We've been after her for years. Forensics tell me that all the killings fit her MO. The trademark, of course, is the Western Brown Snake. This is the first time in five years she's been at large, though. Her last major kill was a US congressman, whom she poisoned. She's been known to have dealings with the triads, though for the large part she seems to freelance."

"Gregorovich was telling the truth about this one at least," Mr. Blunt observed. "I take it there is no love lost between the two of them."

"It's highly possible that they knew each other," Mrs. Jones speculated. "Given their ages, they could have trained together, before Ling left Scorpia. And since we know how Scorpia looks at deserters, I'm sure they've tried to kill each other in the past."

"And yet she, not he, works for Romanov. Unless she took over from him after Eagle Strike?"

"We don't have evidence that Gregorovich was ever working for Romanov. He claims he never did, but this whole case has so many missing pieces that we can't be sure. The most compelling proof that he did work for Romanov is this." Mrs. Jones tapped the fourth folder.

"Ayatollah Ali Khamenei," Blunt read. "The target."

"And how could Yassen know this unless Romanov told him?" Mrs. Jones asked.

Mr. Blunt nodded, acknowledging her logic. "Although," he added, "Romanov is not reputed to be the brightest man out there."

"If Khamenei is assassinated, the results will be catastrophic," Mrs. Jones warned.

Blunt knew this. "We have very little that suggests Gregorovich is wrong about this," he said.

Mrs. Jones nodded and unwrapped another peppermint. "How are we going to stop it?" she asked.

"We don't know when or where the attack will take place. Either Gregorovich truly doesn't know, or he refuses to tell us. We have too few agents in Iran and they are not in high enough places. Not many will sell us information. The CIA or Mossad cannot help us either; we have, on the whole, been more successful there than they have. In short, we have only the name of an assassin, her boss, and the target, and all on the word of a man who has been mostly unconscious for the last six months."

"We can't just hope that plans have changed," Mrs. Jones said. "Our contacts in Iran have said it is certainly possible that an attempt will be made an Khamenei's life."

"What if," Mr. Blunt said carefully, "we had someone go after Ling."

"We've got our people all over Russia and China on the lookout for her. If all goes well, the triads will give us information on her whereabouts," Mrs. Jones interrupted.

Blunt went on. "Someone who could track her, and who knows where to find her employer. Someone who knows her, or at least how she operates. A person who could... remove her, and maybe Romanov, too, without implicating us."

Mrs. Jones paled. "We don't make deals with the devil, Alan," she said tersely.

Blunt paused for a moment; she usually never used his Christian name. Then his eyes went hard. He had done the calculations, over and over. It was a gamble, and if he lost ....

"I don't make the suggestion lightly."

"We don't even know if Yassen knows anything beyond what he's already told us. He could be as clueless as we are! And besides, we can absolutely _not_ let someone as dangerous as him free. Ever. And you're suggesting that we not only do that but give him a gun as well? Do you know how many MI6 agents he's killed? Twenty-nine, Alan. _Twenty-nine!_ This isn't even counting SAS soldiers or policemen. He has no love for us, let me tell you that. There's no telling what he will do if you let him out!" Mrs. Jones had forgotten the peppermint long ago in her anger. The plastic wrapper came apart with a snap in her hands as she glared at Mr. Blunt.

"I've thought about this over and over. I've read his psychological profile, and every bit of conversation he's had with any of us. I don't think he'll go an a killing spree; I think he'll do what he's paid to do."

"We can't _pay_ the most wanted enemy of Great Britain to do anything! This is serious; you could be replaced for subversion of justice. There is nothing _right_ about this."

"I know. Don't you think I know?" Mr. Blunt was almost shouting. "But we can't just do nothing. This is top priority; I've been authorised to 'take all necessary measures'. And God knows I don't want to. If there was another way I'd do it, no matter what the cost."

He collected his thoughts, and lowered his voice. "But if there is one person in this world who can find and stop Ling before she makes the kill, it's Gregorovich. He has connections with the FSB, Scorpia, and just about every criminal organisation in Europe and Asia. He knows how she'll think, and he's good enough to kill her without any collateral. And we can control him."

"How?" Mrs. Jones demanded. "We can offer to pay him but there's nothing to keep him from running away once he's in the field."

Mr. Blunt didn't look at her. "We can control him in the field," he said, "by sending Alex Rider with him."

There was a long silence. Mr. Blunt could suddenly hear the very loud ticking of his watch. He could hear Mrs. Jones's as well, the two timepieces mercilessly counting off the seconds slightly out of sync.

When Mrs. Jones finally spoke, she was practically forcing the words out between her teeth to keep from shouting. "We don't know that he won't just kill Alex, despite what he has said. Or even if he doesn't kill him, I'm sure he'll have no qualms about leaving Alex to die, or double-crossing him. Have you forgotten what he did in France? "

"I don't want this either. I'd rather the two of them had never met. But I've spoken at length to our psychologists. They tell me that there's a good chance that he will keep his word to Alex. Yassen isn't an insane killer. He's a very logical person. He is, no matter how I hate to say it, very much like Alex."

"According to a few interviews with shrinks where he hardly spoke ten words! And similar to Alex based on what? His record? I can really see that! Except for the complete lack of conscience, yes, he would make a fine agent! Why didn't I think of this sooner?" Mrs. Jones was furious. "I cannot believe I am even having this conversation," she said.

Alan Blunt sighed, feeling the full weight of his years, and more. "Just please consider it an option," he said wearily. "If it helps, I'm sorry that I even thought of this. We'll talk about this later."

"Never would not be late enough," Mrs. Jones said, and left.


	6. Up and Away

**A/N:** Sorry so late! Took me forever to think of an action sequence. Enjoy!

**Chapter 5: Up and Away**

Alex slept in till noon the next day and spent the rest of the afternoon finishing his homework. Normally it wouldn't have taken him so long, but he was still behind at school and last night had given him a lot to think about. He stared at his chemistry text, grateful that they were only a month into the term. This week's homework covered isotopes; it shouldn't be too difficult. He scanned the relevant portions of the text and skimmed over an insert about deuterium and heavy water, something to do with nuclear research. Ironic, he thought, how he'd dealt with more than his fair share of nuclear bombs and he still wasn't quite sure how they worked. But Alex didn't really want to know.

Baking smells were drifting up the staircase to his room. His stomach growled, and he looked at the clock. It was four o'clock; time for Jack's Americanized version of tea. Or, Alex thought wryly, _applied_ chemistry. He shut the book, decided he could finish the assignment in class tomorrow, and went downstairs.

Jack was just taking a cake out of the oven when he reached the small kitchen. She greeted him with a cheery, "Out of the way, or you'll get burned!" as she swung the pan onto the counter. Alex grinned and opened up the icebox to fish out butter, jam, and assorted fruits while Jack persuaded the cake to come out of the pan. He grabbed a bag of scones - "Be careful you don't drop all that," Jack warned – and put them on the table.

"You should really try making these from scratch sometime," he told Jack as he went back to the icebox for milk, which he preferred to tea.

"What, scones? There's a no...you have to knead them, I think. Definitely takes too long... aha! There we are," she said to the cake. "OK. Tea's up!" She moved the cake to the table, and got her coffee out of the microwave.

"I really don't see why you persist in calling this tea when none of us actually drinks it," Alex observed.

"Oh, it's just you British and the whole 'glorious tradition' whatnot," Jack answered cheerfully. "Although I do drink it sometimes."

Alex grinned, and cut himself some cake. It was done from a mix, but Jack knew what kinds of extras to stir into the batter to make it something new every time. Today it was golden raisins and nuts.

"Alex," Jack said, suddenly sober. "We used to be good friends didn't we?"

Alex was surprised. "_Used_ to?" he asked. "Aren't we still?"

Jack was thoughtful. "I'm not sure sometimes. Don't get me wrong, I still love you even when you forget to take out the trash, but ... you've changed so. And it's not just that you're growing up. Or maybe it is. You're growing up too fast; sometimes I feel younger than you."

"You certainly look as young as me," Alex teased, but Jack just rolled her eyes.

"It's all this MI6 stuff," Jack decided. "Kids shouldn't have to do that sort of thing, flying off into who-knows-where to fight it out with monsters like Damian Cray! That's what we've got a government for, right?"

Alex was struck with the similarity of her words to Yassen's. "I know. And you're right," he sighed.

"I just hate having to worry about you all the time, Alex! You've been shot and stabbed and I don't know what else! You come home tired and frightened and you aren't even allowed to talk about it. I want to help you, but I don't know how!" She threw her hands into the air, then collapsed back on her chair, covering her face with her hands. "You must think I'm a terrible guardian," she said. "I can't even guarantee that none of your enemies or whatever will come chasing you in here."

"Jack!" Alex grabbed her hand. "It's not your fault, there's nothing you can do - "

"I know!" Jack exclaimed. "And that's what I hate! I can't _do _anything, except wait for them to come and tell me if you're still alive!"

"What do you want me to do, Jack?" Alex suddenly felt very young again. He hated seeing Jack this way; it frightened him."Don't leave me," he begged softly. "I swear I'll never forget the trash again."

Jack smiled, though her eyes were wet, and hugged him. "Silly Alex," she said into his hair, and he was reminded of being nine year old again, when he had fallen off his skateboard. "Of course I'm not leaving. I just wish this could just stop for a while, you know? Before it's too late."

Alex disentangled himself from her arms. "So do I," he said truthfully.

Jack blew her nose into her napkin, and took a deep breath. "Sorry," she said with a small smile.

Alex shook his head. She didn't need to be. "Jack," he asked. "Do you think my father would've wanted me to do this?" He didn't need to specify what he was referring to.

"I never knew your dad, Alex. I think Ian did, though. He probably wasn't thinking quite so soon, though."

"But what do you think?" he persisted.

"Well," Jack said slowly. "Speaking as the closest thing you have to a mother - "

"I prefer 'annoying older sister' or 'aunt'" Alex quipped, and Jack swatted at him.

"Shut up, joker.... anyhow. I honestly don't think it could be anything a parent would want for his kid. You deserve a chance at a childhood, no matter how cliché this sounds. Adults do lots of nasty things, you know. Well, of course you know. But you can hardly go to the hairdresser nowadays without hearing some story about friends backstabbing each other! It's not so bad when you're young, and heaven knows you'll grow up fast enough. I can't tell you what your dad wanted, Alex, because I didn't know him. But I think I can safely say that parents want their kids to have more than they did, and to be happy and safe."

Alex nodded. "Thanks, Jack." He meant it.

"Eventually you'll have to decide what you think, Alex," Jack said. "That's something your parents can't do for you."

Alex was somber. "I used to think I knew," he said. "But now I'm not so sure."

Jack took a sip of coffee and made a face. "My coffee's cold," she complained, and went to put it in the microwave. "Enough of this now," she called from the kitchen. "Talk to me about school, or girls or football. Isn't Real Madrid playing a match here sometime soon?"

Alex smiled and was happy to let normalcy claim him. This time, he thought, it might even be permanent.

* * *

This time when Alex saw the man in the grey suit, he ran. It was after school, but before football practice. "Beat you to the fields!" Alex laughed and started the six-minute run. Two of the other boys joined him, but the rest were still changing. Good-natured namecalling followed them as the rest of the team hastily gathered up their gym bags.

Alex set the pace a little faster than usual for a warm-up run; he hadn't looked closely enough to identify the man, but he looked like the type MI6 would use to do their desk work. That, he thought, was more than enough reason to ignore him. And besides, it was a beautiful day, for London. It hadn't rained in a week and the fields would be dry. Next weekend was their first game of the season, against a posh private school everyone in Brookland looked forward to beating. Alex was a starting midfielder for the first team this year and had no intention of missing the game and losing his spot to a second-former.

When they reached the fields there was no sign of the suited man. Alex grinned in relief and teased his teammates as they caught up to him. They payed him back by tackling him to the ground, becoming a gleefully howling mass until Mr. Wiseman blew his whistle and ordered the group to do five suicides, since they were obviously well warmed up.

There was a collective groan and Mr. Wiseman assigned Alex to set up the cones while the others put on their cleats. The next few minutes were filled with was nothing but the sounds of laboured breathing as the boys sprinted back and forth. By the fifth time, they were all mentally cursing the coach, Alex, and running in general, but then it was over and they were all bent over, hands on their knees, gasping for breath.

Drills began after that, passing and dribbling and shooting. Alex managed to concentrate most of the time, but he couldn't help glancing around occasionally. When the man hadn't shown up when it was time to play, Alex put him out of his mind. It was time for some football, and Alex was determined to enjoy himself.

Half an hour later, he saw the man again. He was getting out of a black car, with tinted windows. There was a driver in the car, and it pulled away and went down the street.

Practice was over for the day, and the boys were taking off their cleats and gathering up the balls. Alex hoped his jersey would lend him some anonymity, and volunteered to load the equipment bag into Mr. Wiseman's car. One of the forwards, James, went with him.

"I think we should be able to take them," James was saying. "Even if they've got a professional coach and all. We've got plenty of talent on the team this year, what with the new boys and the vets."

"Yeah," Alex agreed, his heart not really in the conversation. "It won't be an easy game, though." They reached Mr. Wiseman's small Honda and hefted the bag into the trunk. "Listen, Jim, I've got to be home quick because Jack wanted to go out this evening, and I'm already late. Do you mind taking my bag back to the school for me?"

"No problem. Just make sure you don't go disappearing before the game y'hear?" James laughed.

Alex grinned. "Thanks a million," he half-groaned, and ran off.

"Alex!" James called after him. "I meant what I said. Don't get sick, we need all our mids. I don't want to run any more than I have to!"

"Got it," Alex laughed, already halfway down the street. He didn't know quite where he should go – MI6 knew where he lived – but when he saw the black Mitsubishi as he turned the corner, he knew he wanted to go in the opposite direction. Quickly he ducked into a doorway and then peeked out, considering his options. The driver hadn't notice him, and it would only be a few minutes before the MI6 man found out he had left. But they hadn't been expecting him to run, so at least he had the advantage. He might even loose them after all! He grinned, suddenly determined to do just that. They would probably just show up at his door tomorrow, but today was a good day for a merry chase around London.

Alex darted across the street and then turned into the alley behind the fields. He wondered if it would be worth it going back to the school for his bicycle, but abandoned the idea. By the time he got there the MI6 men would've caught up to him.

The old wooden fenced flashed by him, then disappeared as Alex entered the small area that passed as a parking lot. The MI6 man couldn't see Alex from here; the building that housed the restrooms was blocking his view. Alex saw a small pickup truck about to leave the parking lot – it probably belonged to the man who coached the lacrosse team that practiced on the field next to them – and sprinted towards it, hoping the man wouldn't see him. Pickup trucks were rare in London, but Alex wasn't complaining. Practice had tired him out, and he wasn't about to turn down a ride.

The truck slowed to a stop as the driver waited for a chance to exit the parking lot. While his attention was on the street, Alex vaulted over the back and into the bed of the truck – only to land amongst a pile of lacrosse sticks and uniforms. Then there was a sudden jerk as the truck turned onto the road.

Alex waited a few minutes, then looked around. The black Mitsubishi was no where in sight. Alex sighed contentedly, and tried to arrange the lacrosse equipment so he could lie back comfortably. He lazily closed his eyes, enjoying the all too infrequent sunlight and not particularly caring what he did next.

* * *

Alex was woken when a lacrosse stick banged into his head, forcing him to blink several times to clear his head before looking around to orient himself. What had caused the hit, he found, was the speed bump the truck had just passed over. They were now on a small road – a bumpy one, at that – on what appeared to be some sort of estate. As they crested a small hill, Alex saw the distinctive Kensington Palace and gave a small smile. At least now he knew where he was.

A half mile later, Alex dropped over the side of the lorry and strolled across the grass. If memory served him right, he was near the Sunken garden, which was sure to be full of tourists as well as locals on such a nice day. As he drew closer to the garden, he heard the noise of an engine from the road he'd left. Looking back over his shoulder and up the hill, he barely caught a glimpse of a black car with tinted windows before it disappeared behind a copse of trees.

Alex ran to the garden and squeezed in through a hole in the hedges. He came out in a classically arranged flowerbed, face-to-face with an elderly couple.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" he said politely before stepping onto the walk.

"Quite," the old man managed.

Alex quickly made his way across the garden to the main green in front of the palace; bright colours had caught his eye, and if memory served him correctly, he might have found a way out of here.

As he came out of the small valley that housed the garden, Alex grinned at the sight before him. The lawn was, as advertised, filled with huge bunches of coloured nylon and canvas balloons. Some had already risen off the ground as they were filled with hot air; others were slowly rising while still more were just being laid out. It was the annual ... balloon festival.

As Alex trotted over, he heard the blare of a horn and a loud roar from the crowd as ropes were cast off and the first balloon took off, its riders spraying streams of confetti over the spectators as it went. He grinned; this was exciting! He remembered coming here once with Ian Rider, and being told the basics of ballooning; how to launch, fly, and land a balloon. Then he'd gotten in one with his uncle, and they'd taken the tour over the London rooftops. It had been magnificent.

He had never thought, of course, that he would one day need to know how to stow away aboard a balloon. Or at least hitch a ride on one, since stowing away on one of these would be difficult. Alex scanned the field for a balloon likely to take off soon. He found one, a handsome blue-and-yellow affair, and ran over. The crew was already at the stakes, preparing to take them up and let the balloon free. Alex spotted a twelve or thirteen year old boy among them and ran up to him.

"Yo, your mom wants you," he said. "She says it's urgent. Here, I'll take over for you."

The boy stared at him. "Do I know you?" he asked.

Alex scoffed. "Of course! I'm in your maths class, silly. Now go! Your mom wants you."

The boy stared at him for another moment and then ran off.

Alex took up his position, grateful that he was far enough away from the rest of the crew that they couldn't make out his features beyond the typical schoolboy look and football uniform. They were hopefully assuming that he and the kid were friends.

The countdown started. Alex stood poised with the other men, waiting.

"Four... three... two... one... zero!"

As one, they pulled the stakes out of the ground and grabbed the ropes, gently keeping the balloon steady as it rose to six feet above the ground.

"Let her go!" someone called, and the ropes went slack as the crew let go. All except Alex, that is. He ran towards the balloon, so that anyone in it would think his rope, too, had slackened because he'd let go. In fact, he was underneath the balloon, gripping the rope.

Inside the basket, the pilot turned up the flame, and the balloon started rising rapidly. By the time the ground crew had realized what Alex was doing and yelled at him to stop, he was already off the ground.

Alex started climbing the rope as soon as he was able. Once he got near the basket, he started yelling. "Help! Help!"

Shocked faces appeared over the edge of the basket and one lady screamed. Then: "don't just stand there, pull him up!"

Strong hands started hauling the rope towards the basket, and then grabbed him and helped him over the edge. Alex made a bit of a show of gasping for breath and steadying himself. "I'm all right, I'm all right." he said to all the queries thrown his way. "Thank you. I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't heard me."

"What happened, boy?" the pilot asked.

"I don't know," Alex said. "I was helping to launch for a friend of mine who had to leave, and then I guess my watch caught in the rope or something because the next thing I knew I was fifteen feet off the ground, and then my watch broke and I just managed to catch on to the rope before I fell." He displayed his left wrist, which was rather red and scratched from rubbing against the ropes.

The pilot narrowed his eyes at that story but seemed to accept the story for now. "May as well enjoy the ride now," he said.

Alex would, but he knew that MI6 would be waiting for him when he landed. They would've heard about the boy in the football uniform who had been pulled up to a balloon, if they hadn't seen it personally. So Alex would have to try to get off somewhere in the middle of the ride. Looking down at the earth a hundred meters below him, Alex could see that his options for that were limited at best. But for now, he would indeed enjoy the ride.

They passed over the Thames and started toward the center of the city, avoiding Heathrow as best as they could. They weren't high off the ground compared to jets, but the pilots were still cautious about going too close to London's largest airport.

Alex scanned the skyline as they flew over. They could go directly over downtown because they weren't actually buzzing anything as they had no engine, and it was long enough after 9/11 that Londoners were no longer paranoid about every flying object in the sky.

Suddenly he grinned. The pilot was going to give them a close up look at one of the tallest buildings in the city, the HSBC Tower. At 200 meters in height, it is still eclipsed by the close by Canary Wharf Tower, the tallest in London. Alex had never been in the building; it wasn't open to the public. Well, today he might get a look inside if he was lucky.

The balloon slowed as they passed only ten meters above the building top, just enough to clear the weather vanes. Alex stealthily took up the end of the rope he had been hauled up on and then took a deep breath. Then, holding tightly to the rope, he vaulted over the edge of the basket.

This, Alex thought as he fell, is the mother of all stupid ideas. He twisted to avoid a weather vane and tried desperately to keep his legs clear of the rope. He barely managed when the rope suddenly tightened. He yelled as the rope burned his hands, but clung on for dear life. For a moment he was bouncing wildly on the end of the rope six feet above the roof of the building, and the next he was hanging over a monstrous drop. Then the rope jerked again and he was over the roof; he quickly let go, dropped and rolled.

Ignoring the balloon that was still floating overhead, Alex checked himself for injuries. Bruised knee, stiff ankle, sore shoulder, and lots of dust in his eyes. Blinking, he walked away from the edge of the building and towards a central structure that he presumed housed maintenance units. He could see a door, that was for sure.

Alex tried the roof door, found it was open, and took the elevator to the ground floor. Tired, he walked to the tube station and started his journey home. He had homework to finish, and a test tomorrow, and the game coming up, of course.

So he was undeniably upset when he stepped out onto the station nearest his house and was met by two men in grey suits and sunglasses. A black car was parked nearby.

One of the men had quickly grabbed his arm. "Please get into the car," he told Alex, and led him over.

"You're not even going to offer me candy?" Alex said bitterly as he got in the back seat.

The agent gave what could only be read as a sadistic smile as he shut the door in Alex's face.

* * *

Alex was hungry. He had been on the move for the last two and a half hours now, and had missed tea. Now he was going to miss supper, too, it seemed.

His stomach growled. "I don't suppose you have any food here?" he asked.

The agent shook his head. "No candy, remember?"

Alex smiled in defeat as the car pulled up in front of the Royal and General. They got out of the car and went up to the seventh floor office. The agent opened the door and Alex stepped inside. He took in the familiar faces – Mr. Blunt, Mrs. Jones, and ... Yassen Gregorovich?

Alex backed away on impulse, but the door was already shut behind him. He slammed into it.

"Careful, Alex," said Mrs. Jones. "Won't you have a seat? You must be tired after running all over London like you did."

Alex stayed where he was. "Is it just me or has there been a prison break?"

"Sit down, Alex," Mr. Blunt said, with force. Alex cautiously moved to the only other chair in the room, and dragged it as far away from Yassen as he could before sitting down.

"Hello Alex," the Russian said. Alex noted the disturbing lack of handcuffs.

"Would someone please tell me what's happening?" he asked. He had his suspicions, and they were not pleasant ones.

"Well, Alex," said Mr. Blunt. "It seems you will to be going to Russia...."

Alex raised his hand. "Wait, wait, you skipped the part where you say, 'Alex, we need your help' and I get a chance to say 'not on your life'."

No one laughed. Instead, Mr. Blunt pulled out a photograph. It showed a balding man in a military uniform. "This is Sergei Romanov. It has come to our attention that Mr. Romanov is behind a plot to assassinate the Supreme Leader of Iran...."

Alex did not like where this was going, but he had a funny feeling that he would have to go there anyway. To Russia with an assassin.


	7. Preparations

**Chapter Six: Preparations**

Mrs. Jones had given Alex an apple and a granola bar, and had spent the entire trip to her office icebox explaining to Alex how she really didn't want him to be involved in this at all but there really was no other option. It was nothing that Alex hadn't heard before, but this time he thought she really meant it. And even though he now had a better idea of why he was going, it didn't do much to comfort him.

The food definitely helped, though, and so did his visit to Smithers.

The man was sitting on at his desk with only a lamp and a tablet computer when the door opened for Alex. Alex looked around, waved at Smithers, and swallowed the bite of apple he was chewing.

"There you are, Alex!" Smithers exclaimed. "Back so soon? My my, what a terrible shame. The world can't seem to just stay saved these days!"

"Hallo, Smithers," said Alex.

"I was given _such_ short notice for this, but luckily I got bored while I was on vacation in Switzerland not too long ago, and thought of some new things. They'll be coming up in a minute, but first – I really think it'd be best if you finished eating, because your jaw will drop when you see them, and it's not nice to do that with your mouth full!"

Alex nodded and took a last bite of his apple before tossing the core into the wastebasket. It was incinerated immediately. "Do you mind if I have a drink?" he asked, spying a water dispenser in the corner.

Smithers beamed. "Of course you may! If you press the hot water button, you'll actually get tea! And if you have the right cup, the leaves will arrange themselves into a message!"

"I always knew I could tell my fortunes from tea leaves," Alex said, and pressed the cold water button. "What does this do?" he asked.

"Well, it's for water of course. But if you press it three times and then press the hot water button, it will launch a flare."

Alex was sorely tempted, but settled for a drink of water.

"Now Alex," said Smithers, when the paper cup spontaneously dissolved into ash, "let me show you what I have." He pressed a few buttons with his stylus, and a round door slid off of the surface of his desk and was almost immediately replaced with a similar piece of desk with three objects on it. He picked up the first one and handed them to Alex.

It was a pair of sunglasses, mirrored black. Alex put them on, and the room became dimmer. He took them off and looked for buttons.

Smithers looked very pleased. "I call these the Stunglasses. Not only are they very fashionable, but they also have hypodermic darts in the sides. See here, just at the corner of the lenses, where the earpieces fold? That's where they come out of. You can even see the tips of the needles, here. Or maybe you can't, because they're black too. All you have to do is look at someone and squeeze the end of the earpiece! Make sure you squeeze and hold, though, or it may go wild. You may have to squeeze rather hard, too; a precaution in case someone else picks them up."

Alex gingerly touched the ends of the sunglasses.

"And that's not all!" Smithers continued, clearly excited. "These are equipped with night vision, too. Just press the sunglasses to your nose to turn it on and off!"

Alex tried, and the room turned green. He pressed again and it returned to normal. "Thanks, Smithers!" he said.

Next Smithers handed him a small container of dental floss. "There's thirty feet of cable in here, Alex," he said. "Almost as thin as a hair, too. Carbon nanotubes and some extras. It will hold roughly two elephants, but I certainly hope you won't need to! Press on the bottom – it's actually not the real bottom, it's a button – and it will launch out, and travel maybe thirty feet before sinking in to whatever you aimed it at. A wall, maybe. Wind the cable around this piece here when you need to tie it off; it won't cut it, but it will stop it from winding out. Push on the bottom again and will wind back in. You can attach the container to anything magnetic; it's got a powerful electromagnet inside. And it's so small, and even peppermint flavoured! It would be perfect for pulling loose teeth, too."

"I'm not _quite_ that young." Alex pocketed the floss and looked questioningly at the last object. Smithers lowered his voice.

"Now look here, Alex," he said. "I don't like that man you're going to be working with. Yassen Gregorovich! He could beat up Chuck Norris! He is a very nasty sort of man, and I do want to see you again, Alex. I'd very much rather he didn't kill you. So always keep this with you, you hear? Just in case."

Alex took the knife and withdrew it from its black canvas sheath. Its blade was sharp and painted black; he tested the balance. From what he could tell, it was an excellent knife that fit comfortably in his hand.

"Strap the sheath to your leg, under your jeans," Smithers instructed. "Or under your sleeve. Don't let the Russian see it, now. And there's a transmitter in the sheath, too. Just in case. See here? Press three times and we'll come get you. Now, you know I'm not supposed to give you anything that can kill. So please don't kill anyone, at least not with this, all right?"

Alex nodded. "I'll be careful," he said.

"Good!" Smithers beamed, and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. "For you. Fingerprint sensitive, GPS equipped, etc. There's a manual for it, of course; it's loaded with goodies! And you can always call us with it, too. There's a cutting laser in the antenna, too! New feature, though of course that means there's no dart anymore." He sighed. "That's all I have for you, Alex! Come back safely now, you hear? If I hear Yassen has done anything to you, I shall be very put out!"

The door opened for Alex, and after he had said goodbye to Smithers he walked out. Mrs. Jones was waiting in the hallway, and she took him down to the car that would take him to the airport.

He hadn't even had a chance to say goodbye to Jack.

* * *

They were taking a private jet to St. Petersburg. Company markings on the outside suggested that its occupants worked for Exxon-Mobil, and they would enter Russia as a minor company representative and his son.

Alex was tired but he didn't feel comfortable sleeping with Yassen nearby. Especially when the Russian was cleaning his knives, as he was now. Alex counted them. There were two, a switchblade and a combat knife. Yassen didn't like them. "English made," he had said scornfully. He would trade these in for pieces of his choice when he got onto Russian soil. Alex hadn't asked where they would come from. He was just glad MI6 hadn't given Yassen a gun just yet. The assassin did not share these sentiments.

"What are they offering you?" Alex asked suddenly, surprised at his own boldness. But he had to know.

Yassen's eyes flickered up to his own; they were as cold as ever. This was not the safest topic of conversation and Yassen's expression let Alex know it.

He must have decided it would not hurt if Alex knew, because after a minute he answered. "They have agreed to drop the bounty on my head, and give me twenty-four hours on my return before they start looking for me."

So he was basically being paid the bounty – over a million, Alex guessed – and then some. Alex doubted MI6 would really give him twenty-four hours; he was too dangerous a criminal to let loose once more. So there would be a double cross. Alex wondered who would get to it first. He suspected that Yassen would simply not return to England, but he wondered how soon the Russian would run off.

"Have you ever worked with Cobra before?" Alex asked now, seeking a somewhat safer topic.

"Assassins typically work alone," Yassen told him.

"What about you and Father?" Alex asked, then wished he could take back the question. He had always seemed to have a knack for asking questions that made bad guys mad, but now was definitely not the best time for that trait to display itself.

Yassen's eyes flickered; his face was unreadable. But he chose to answer the question anyway. "That was a rare exception. We trusted each other."

Alex wanted to know more, but kept quiet. So far Yassen hadn't killed him or threatened him, but Alex still wasn't sure of his place in this venture. Yassen was clearly in charge, a fact Alex didn't want to dispute. But was he supposed to silently tag along, like he had on Skeleton Key? And what would happen if Yassen started seeing him as a hindrance?

"Tell me about Cobra," he said boldly. Yassen looked at him for a moment, cold blue eyes assessing the teenager. Alex gazed back steadily, until he saw a flicker of approval in the man's eyes. Alex hoped that was a good sign.

"The target," he said, "was originally recruited by Scorpia. She trained at Malagusto , and was most noted for her skill with poisons and blades. She is also an accomplished musician and travels under cover as a flautist. In the case of the recent London assassination, she also used her music to control the snake that bit Kent. She is perhaps in her early forties, which is old for an assassin. Her early career was very successful. She made three major kills for Scorpia, but then left for unknown reasons. She was later found working for the triads, and stayed mostly with them for the next eight years. But then she failed her biggest assignment, and was forced to go on the run. For the past five years, many believed she had quit or been killed. I don't know where or why Romanov hired her, but he chose well, although I do not believe she has the resources or the skill to kill the faqih."

Alex pondered. "How did you know about Romanov, anyway? Did he ask you to work for him first?"

A half-smile formed on the Russian's face. "You are a very intelligent boy, Alex."

Alex took that as a yes. "I'm surprised he let you refuse it." Assuming he had, and wasn't actually working for Romanov now and just waiting for a chance to get back to Russia....

Yassen saw the sudden fear in Alex's eyes. An intelligent boy indeed. He might be quite a bit of use after all. "I did refuse. Although he did not make it easy."

Alex relaxed slightly.

"What do you know about Russia, Alex?" Yassen asked.

"Not that much," Alex said, taken by surprise. "I opted for British history last term. But I've been to Murmansk." He didn't add that he had been there with General Sarov, who told him quite a bit about Russia – one that Alex would never want to visit. And there was Paul Drevin, too, but he was more British than anything.

"Then it is time you learned something. Do you speak any Russian, Alex?"

"No."

"You will be at a great disadvantage, unable to speak or read any signs. That will have to be remedied."

Alex shrugged. He doubted he could learn even the Cyrillic alphabet before the plane landed, but he could try.

"We'll start with your name, Alexander." Yassen picked up a pen and wrote it out in Cyrillic block letters. Алэксапнр. Then he wrote it out in script. "The diminutive form, what you will be called, Sasha." He wrote: Сaшa.

"Wait a minute," Alex interrupted. "What about 'Alex'?" He crossed out the last few letters of "Alexander".

"Sorry. That's English. In Russia, 'Sasha'." Yassen didn't sound sorry.

"But it doesn't even sound remotely like Alexander!" Alex exclaimed. "And it's a girl's name!"

Yassen ignored him, though he looked amused. "Hello. Zdrastvitchye. Здрaвствуйтe."

Alex could feel a headache coming on already. It looked like he was starting on a crash course in Russian.

Half an hour later, he swallowed two Tylenol and began to wish the plane was on one, too.


	8. Vanya

**Chapter 7: Vanya**

St. Petersburg is a city of many names. It is known as the Venice of the North because of its many canals and waterways. It is also known as the Crime Capital of Russia. In some ways this was a misnomer. Capital crime in St. Petersburg has gone down since the 1990's, and street crime, drug smuggling and human trafficking are the major remaining problems. This does nothing to change the fact that most crime is sponsored by the Mafiya, who also control over half of both state and privately owned businesses. The FSB is ostensibly responsible for keeping the gangs in check, but more often than not collaborates with them to fill their own pockets. It is said that you can buy anything in St. Petersburg, and information is one of the hottest commodities.

Even in a place like this, Yassen Gregorovich still managed to stand out. Contract killers were not to be found on every street corner, but the ones that were often worked for as little as one thousand American dollars. It was not every assassin that could command a minimum wage of three hundred thousand dollars. In advance.

Years of experience had made Yassen a very rich man. But like all rich men in Russia, he too had to pay off the Mafiya. They knew where he lived, after all – when he was in Russia, however infrequent that was. He had a love-hate relationship with the gangs; he had worked for them as a teen but once he left them for the KGB and eventually Scorpia, they quickly became an annoyance. They could be useful upon occasion, but could never be trusted to do quality work. All too often they made stupid mistakes.

The moment the jet touched down on the airstrip, the Mafiya was already watching them. All foreigners, especially ones in the oil business, were potential for profit. The MI6 manufactured traveler's visas took Yassen and Alex through security with minimum trouble; the real problems would come later, of course.

They checked into an out-of-the-way hotel, where there would be no questions asked, and Alex asked where they would start searching.

"_We_," Yassen said, "will not be investigating anything. _I _will go and get weapons, and find out where the target is. _You_ will stay here and try not to get scammed out of anything by the man at the front. It is not good for an English boy to be on the streets at night. The Mafiya are not easily fooled."

Alex had looked put out, but the chill in the Russian's voice convinced him to hold his tongue. Yassen left the hotel.

Alex would leave shortly afterwards. Yassen had expected it, but he would be able to find out quickly enough if Alex did anything stupid. He had things of his own to take care of.

It was not yet fully dark, but even a man like Yassen would did not go out unarmed after sunset if he could help it. Especially with the type of business he was planning on doing. Yassen took a taxi to one of the apartments he kept under a pseudonym. After checking for explosives, he entered and pried the false back off of the bookshelf in the main room. He chose a rifle and two scopes along with a variety of shells and put them in a canvas gym bag, then chose three pistols and different types of holsters. Two of the guns went at his sides, and the third and smallest one he strapped to his forearm underneath his jacket.

He picked up one of the five cell phones and made a call. Ten minutes later, he was on foot in the heart of Khronstadsky District. Dominated by the Tambov Gang ever since the clash with Malyshev's Gang, the area was a Mafiya stronghold. It didn't take long for him to find one of the spotters, a man who strolled the streets fishing for business.

Someone was about to get caught.

Yassen left the doorway he had been watching from and stumbled into the street, swaying unsteadily as he progressed down it. His clothes would mark him as well off, and even though his features were common to many Russians, he could easily have been from a richer European country. Yassen could almost see the fisher smile. Another drunk tourist. The perfect target. He approached Yassen from the shadows.

Seconds later he was back in them, head spinning, a knife to his throat. He hadn't even seen the man strike, and now a voice was dripping ice cold into his ear: "Where is Vanya?"

Yassen had waited for the man to come close enough before catching him in a wristlock and propelling him against the wall of a nearby building. The man had been too careless in approaching him; the gangs were getting incompetent as they grew comfortable upon their success.

"I will not ask again," Yassen threatened.

"I don't know! Who are you? Who is paying you?" The man's voice was high with fear.

"If you don't know, you are of no use to me."

The complete lack of emotion in his captor's voice terrified the man. He had only one coherent thought left: he wanted to live. "The Hermitage! He's at the Hermitage!"

Yassen withdrew the knife, then felled the man with a sharp elbow to the temple. He could have killed him, of course, but he was not paid to take out minor gangsters. Yassen removed the man's scruffy dark jacket and replaced his own with it. Now he would blend in a little more. He would need to if he was to succeed tonight.

There is only one Hermitage in St. Petersburg. It is a grand museum, a collection of six buildings, including the Winter Palace. It is in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the world's largest collection of paintings, and is home to over three million works of art. It is also the place where a certain man known as Vanya has his office. He has two, actually; one is for his cover job, that of an assistant curator to the vast gallery of Italian art. His real work also involves art, but instead of buying it, he steals it.

In July 2006, 221 items, among them jewelry, silverware, and icons, were stolen from the museum, a total value of over 540,000 American dollars. This was Vanya's doing. He also assisted in recovering some of the items; his 'brilliant deductive reasoning' earned him high praise in the St. Petersburg Times. This was only cover-up for the real theft, of course. It was a Michaelangelo, valued upwards of eleven million American dollars, and it has yet to be discovered missing.

Vanya was not an honest man. He was the head of the Tambov Gang, making him, for all intents and purposes, the mayor of St. Petersburg and a very powerful man. Yassen despised him. For one, his operation too often gave out faulty information, and for another, his taste in art was terrible.

And his office was not the most accessible. The Hermitage was a palace, and in the days of its construction that was synonymous with a fortress. Vanya had taken full advantage of this. Modern technology had aided him considerably. And really, what better place to run a crime ring from than a world-famous museum? Security was so tight a mouse couldn't get near a painting without being detected, trapped, electrocuted and faced with a half-dozen men with pistols. And Vanya liked mice. So anyone who he didn't want to see would be much worse off, or in a word, dead. Some were even on display, discreetly tucked away into sarcophagi in the Egyptian wing.

Yassen Gregorovich was a man Vanya never wanted to see. Yassen had double-crossed him twice, and was the only man to ever do that and still be alive. Vanya was determined that the assassin would not get a third chance. Yassen was counting on the fact that he would. But it would not be easy.

The Great Hermitage was where Vanya had his stronghold. Yassen had never before met with Vanya here; normally the gangster arranged meetings in places that were more accessible. He could usually be found in one of three other offices at this time of night, when the majority of his business was conducted. Lately he had been in some trouble with the local authorities, and was forced to move operations to the Hermitage to avoid being busted at one of his other locations. Not many uninvited visitors would approach him there, and any who did probably would never get far enough to meet him.

The front entrance to the three-story building was impenetrable; there was no was short of bombing the building to access it form the air, and Yassen did not have a helicopter. But there was another option. There were always alternatives, Yassen thought. The museum is located on the banks of the Neva River; glass-sided tour boats are often lined up nearby. At nighttime, yachts often pass by, taking in the grand sight of the beautifully lit buildings. If Vanya truly was at the Hermitage, his yacht would be nearby.

There was no need for the yacht to be there unless somehow it enabled Vanya to make a quick getaway. That meant there had to be a way into the Hermitage from the yacht.

From the rooftop of a nearby business, Yassen scanned the river. He spotted the yacht almost instantly. It was not that brightly lit, and it was cruising gently up and down a stretch about a mile away from the Hermitage. Yassen scrutinized the sides and deck of the yacht with high-powered binoculars, mouth wrinkling in a slight expression of distaste. The boat was, in his opinion, quite ugly. It did not seem capable of high speed, though he knew it must be because it was an escape vessel. He saw the telltale oddities that spoke of hidden weapons, even an anti-aircraft mount. This was a special yacht, no doubt about it.

Lying on the rooftop in the cold Russian night, Yassen formed a plan. Ten minutes later he climbed down and started walking toward the yacht.

* * *

It was cold, but the man was only wearing a light jersey. The winter was much colder, after all, and would be coming fast enough. He would enjoy not having to wear five layers while he still could. He sighed and paced the deck in the shadows of the main cabin. While it was true that Vanya terrified him, it was not enough to keep him from boredom as he did his job. Soon maybe he could get a promotion, do a little errand-running for the drug rings or something. Drugs were a much higher-paying business than looking after Vanya's toys. And more interesting too.

He heard a scraping noise and lazily turned toward it, yawning. It was probably Alexei, coming up for a smoke...

His eyes widened and his mouth opened in a scream that never came out. He didn't even have time to register the fact that he had been hit before consciousness left him.

* * *

Yassen dragged the man back into the shadows and pressed himself against the cabin wall as he silently made his way around to the door. There were no security cameras out here on the deck, or mounted on the cabin eaves. Vanya must have been confident that any intruder would have been stopped by the security on the exterior. The thought almost made Yassen laugh. It had been a simple matter to pull the black fiberglass and Kevlar kayak that he had rented into the shadow of the hull and climb the side using magnetic clips. The rail had been electrified, of course, but he had been able to avoid it and the portholes and cameras easily enough.

There were most likely only ten or so people on the yacht, Yassen reasoned. If they could be taken out one at a time, silently, no one would be the wiser, and no signal would go to Vanya to warn him.

He entered the cabin quietly, using the keycard from the fallen guard. There was a room to his left; empty. Sleeping quarters, he saw. No one would be asleep at this hour. He quickly went through the extensive cabin, ignoring the signs of ill-gotten luxury and noting which rooms were occupied and how many were in them. There was a total of eleven people on the yacht. The two in the most dangerous position, where they could alert Vanya, were of course the captain and mate who were up front, steering the boat. He would have to leave them for last, however, because a change in the boat's course could alarm the others.

Two guards were alone in separate rooms; Yassen dealt with them first. They never even saw him. There was a pair of guards in the map room. Yassen felled the first from behind with a roundhouse kick to the temple and took out the next with a quick double-strike to the solar plexus and throat. He changed his mind about Vanya's taste in carpet; the thick material muffled the sound as the men fell.

In the galley was the biggest group of men. There were five of them, sitting at a table playing cards. A bottle of vodka was circulating around. Yassen frowned. Drink would dull their senses but also dull their pain. They might fight drunk, but they would fight hard if given the chance. He wished he had brought a silencer, or a tranquilizer gun.

There was nothing else for it; if they made any noise, maybe the remaining two would ignore it as part of their card game. Humans, Yassen had observed, were so easily deceived by themselves, hearing only what they wanted to hear. And if the captain and mate were alerted, it wouldn't matter that much anyway. Yassen could always use his gun then.

He entered the room quickly. The first two with their backs to him went down right away; the man sitting across from them opened his mouth to yell but was silenced immediately by a flying knife. One of the others drew his pistol, only to find it spinning across the room a split second later, to be followed shortly by himself. The remaining man managed to get on his feet, but he had no weapon. He hollered and took a swing at the assassin. That mistake cost him his consciousness, as Yassen easily slid under the wild blow and caught the man around the neck, cutting off his air supply and silencing him before swinging a vicious elbow into his temple. Good night, goon.

Yassen proceeded to the front of the cabin. In less than a minute the captain and mate were out cold, and tied up for good measure. Yassen started steering the yacht towards the Great Hermitage.

From his rooftop vantage point earlier, he had estimated the height of the yacht using simple trigonometry. Looking across at the Great Hermitage, he had noticed that the bridge over the canal between it and the building next to it was about the same height. His final clue had been the odd shape of the yacht itself – it was fashioned to look somewhat like an old-style steamboat, but it was diesel propelled. The pipes on top were not actually used for exhaust, he had noticed, but merely for decoration – or perhaps a more sinister purpose.

Looking at the controls now, he confirmed his suspicions. The steam pipe had a hatch in it, about one and a half meters down so that no one could see it from the air. Apparently it could actually blow steam, but from a machine, not the engine itself. A clever cover. Leaving the controls for a minute, Yassen took a quick trip to the pipes. Sure enough, there was a ladder leading up the one on the left side, with a hatch about three meters up.

The yacht moved silently over the water. Slowly, it turned towards the bank. Any observer on that dark night may have stared incredulously as it moved towards the small canal between two buildings. Surely it was too tall to clear the bridge which, unlike so many in St. Petersburg, did not rise! But it would just barely make it under the bridge, though it looked to be stuck with one of the steam pipes scraping the top. The boat stopped moving. It must be some drunk rich man out for a dare.

The yacht was indeed stuck, but by design not accident. Yassen quickly turned the key he had taken from the captain and pressed the buttons to open the hatch. Then he set the boat on a slow reverse course and quickly raced to the ladder. He would not be needing the yacht again.

The pipe was already scraping slowly away when Yassen reached the top rung. He used the captain's identification card against the scanner underneath the bridge, noting that only the small LED gave it away. The rest of the trapdoor, down to the painted stone, was practically invisible.

The door swung down and he moved though just as the ladder he had climbed up moved out from under him.

He was in.

Now was the time for speed; Vanya must have security cameras all over the place. Even on a night like this when he was sure to be understaffed, it would not take him long to notice Yassen. Yassen would just have to find him first.

The corridor was old, stone, and musty. Ten meters later it changed to wood; he was inside the Great Hermitage. Even though it was a three-story building, Yassen was sure Vanya's office was in the basement.

The way he had entered was not frequently used, Yassen saw. But it would have to be close enough to Vanya's office to provide the man with a quick escape. And Vanya was no Usain Bolt.

Sure enough, the next corridor he entered sent alarm signals down his spine. He was getting close. The design was now modern and utilitarian; it was sturdy, forbidding, and deadly, if the telltale holes in the wall were any sign. Automatic weapons mountings? Vanya was paranoid. And the museum management either never came down here or were terrorized into silence by the setup and Vanya's thugs. Or they quietly disappeared.

Yassen hated feeling vulnerable, but having five automatic weapons possibly tracking your every move was not something that inspired confidence. They had not fired yet, though; Vanya must not know he was here. That alone made Yassen suspicious. The gangster was a cautious man, if somewhat stupid. He must either be distracted, or waiting for him. One scenario would give Yassen the advantage, and the other would be a trap.

There was, however, only one way to find out which one was the case. Yassen went on. He saw the three men before they saw him; guard in front of a door – it could only be Vanya's office. Two were knocked down by his initial attack of a hop sidekick and the third found himself disarmed and unconscious the next second, thanks to quick chops to the temples. Yassen made sure the men on the floor did not get up, then took a key to the door. Vanya would have heard the noise, undoubtedly, but he would feel less alarmed because there had been no weaponsfire. Yassen had used this particular oversight more than once to take advantage of the gangster.

He picked up a guard's fallen keycard, swiped it, and entered the room, weapon raised and ready.

Vanya sat at the desk facing him, but that was not what kept Yassen from instantly gunning down the three armed men in the room. What did was the person sitting in the chair across from Vanya's desk. Or rather, tied to the chair.

It appeared that Alex Rider had beaten him there.

* * *

A/N: Sorry it took me forever to update. Life kind of caught up with me. I can't promise any regular updates on this, so best just to put it on Story Alert. I will finish this, though. Hopefully not in 2 years, but sooner.


	9. Alex Finds his Dream House

**Chapter 8: Alex Finds his Dream House**

**A/N:** Can't promise anything for future updates, they will probably only come when I am really bored which doesn't happen a lot nowadays. But anyway, thanks to America's fast (free!) internet, here's the next chapter!

* * *

The question wasn't really whether Alex would leave; it was when he would go. And what he would take with him. After deciding that there was nothing worth watching on TV – everything was in Russian and boring to boot – Alex pocketed his cell phone and dental floss and left the room. He had debated whether or not to take the Stunglasses, and decided against it. It was too dark to wear them and it would only raise suspicion.

From what Yassen had told him, the area of St. Petersburg that the hotel was in was not a particularly good one. If this was anything like similar areas of London, Alex thought it would be rather easy find drug dealers on the street corners. It might, however, be a bit more difficult to find Mafiya members who knew about an assassin from the Triads who was somehow connected with Iran and the FSB. Especially when one didn't speak Russian.

None of this was enough to stop Alex, of course. His natural penchant for getting into trouble, if nothing else, would be sure to lead him in the right direction. At the present moment this meant left down the street and alongside the canal. Maybe he would see a speedboat with a cobra on it.

After wandering for about half an hour, Alex was bored. Nothing had happened, except that the sun had set and the temperature had plunged. He shivered. It was late summer and already cold. He was beginning to question his decision to go out in the first place.

But since he was here, with honestly nothing better to do, Alex decided that he jolly well wasn't going to freeze his tail off for nothing. Either he would find the Mafiyah or – the more likely scenario – they would find him. The problem, he decided, was not finding drug dealers and assorted other lowlifes. He was certain those would appear as the night progressed. What he really wanted was someone who knew things. That someone, he supposed, would be fairly rich. He would probably not live in this part of the city.

Alex signaled a cab, and prayed that the driver spoke English. He expressed this in his extremely broken, half-forgotten Russian, but the driver was either polite enough or greedy enough to wait patiently through the American tourists' garbled attempts before answering him in English. Alex gave him the name of a street, and the cabby's eyes widened. It was in one of the richest neighborhoods of St. Petersburg; perhaps this boy was a relation of one of those millionaire types. There would be a good tip tonight!

Alex was determined to form a plan on the way there, but by the time the cab stopped, he still hadn't the faintest idea of what to do next. He paid the driver, tipping generously so as not to arouse suspicion. At least, he hoped it was generous. He had no idea what constituted a proper gratuity in Russia.

Alex stared at the wide gates separating himself from the residential area. If I were a rich, paranoid Mafiyah boss, he asked himself, what type of house would I have?

Well, it would be either in a gated community like this or in a penthouse somewhere. Mrs. Jones' apartment came to mind, and Alex squirmed uncomfortably. No, he would assume that in a country that valued land and copious amounts thereof, an actual house would be more of a status symbol than an apartment. And gated communities were a very Western idea; Yassen had told Alex that many in the Russian elite, though outwardly scorning Western fashions, were fanatic consumers of them, if only to separate themselves from the people they ruled.

The obvious problem with gated communities, of course, was the gates. Alex went a few meters down the sidewalk, checked for cameras and lights, and then casually walked into the hedges near the fence. There were no signs saying it was electrified – at least, none that Alex could read. But since his hair wasn't standing on end yet, Alex thought it safe to say there was none. He took out his cell phone. Two minutes later, there were a few missing bars in the fence, a fact handily concealed by the hedge.

Walking down the street, Alex noted that it wasn't terribly well lit. This he didn't mind at all. He supposed the residents could have afforded to floodlight the place, but perhaps they preferred their privacy. This was a good sign. Alex continued pondering his ideal criminal palace as he moved on. If he were the overconfident type, he wouldn't have a fence. Instead there would be laser tripwires and ... dogs. Or guards, or both. The house itself would be ostentatious and well-lit, perhaps even welcoming to fool the visitor into a false sense of ease. But there would be cameras everywhere, and maybe even an automatic weapons mount somewhere. Lots of cover in the yard, too, hidden artistically with landscaping. And a circular driveway for quick entries and exits – though in the back, not the front. The front drive would be narrow and lined by hedges, at an angle to the house. Concealed tire shredders would be optional.

I should be an architect, Alex thought proudly, and then froze. He blinked. The next house on the block was almost exactly what he had imagined.

It _did_ look perfectly welcoming – by far the nicest looking place Alex had yet seen in Russia. For a second he was convinced that he had made some mistake; surely this was a place inhabited by someone's rich but elderly parents, maybe a retired politician-turned-artist. But then, in the evening ground-mist that would only last minutes before the temperature dropped even further, Alex saw the thin, almost-invisible thread of a laser.

On impulse, he moved. The mist would not last, so Alex only had one chance. Stepping carefully into the shadow of a great tree, he ran along the edge of the property until he saw what looked like a side door. It was nearer to the front of the house than the back – a fact Alex appreciated because he had caught a glimpse of the rear entrance, which reminded him of a fortress.

Using the cover of the landscape and the help of the ground mist, Alex slowly crossed the lawn. There were no dogs, much to his relief. If there had, he would have been caught by now. Alex attributed his success mostly to luck as he finally crouched in a flowerbed near the door. Hopefully, he mused, he hadn't triggered a silent alarm somewhere along the way. The ground mist was hardly uniform and it was entirely possible he had walked across something he hadn't seen.

It was, of course, no use for him to concern himself with this now. He was more interested with the immediate problem of getting himself into the house. Since most British schools don't offer a course on Breaking and Entering, the only real experience Alex had with this sort of thing was a basic outline from his uncle Ian and a mostly-slept-through workshop from the SAS.

There would be an alarm, of course. Some type of security system. Ian Rider had explained their own to Alex, showing him how most home systems were tied directly into the bolt of the door. Alex had no idea if this was also true in Russia or, most importantly, in this house in particular. He could only hope for the best as he took out his cell phone and started cutting not at the bolt, but at the hinges the door hung on.

After a few minutes the door settled with a small rumble; Alex carefully pushed it open and slid through before putting it back in its place as best he could. Looking around, he found himself in a dimly lit back hallway. There were what looked like two closets to his right and left, and a narrow staircase straight ahead. Alex checked both the closets – gardening tools and a locked one he assumed was electricity – before cautiously heading up the wooden stairs, trying his best not to make a sound.

At the top was another narrow hall with thin carpeting. Small rooms flanked it on either side, two with light shining from beneath them. Alex guessed it could be quarters for domestic workers; this was good because it meant there had to be easy access to the main house from here, but bad because they could include security guards. He started walking cautiously forward, and was immensely grateful when he found a small corridor just after the first lit door that lead to a small but still lavishly decorated sitting room.

A decorative screen masked his entrance to the empty, dimly lit room. Alex checked for cameras, found one, and stayed in its blind spot as he made for the exit. He found himself back on wood again, in a grand hall. A chandelier – did it have real candles? - was glowing ten meters away, where he presumed the front of the mansion was, but the rest was mostly dark save for a half dozen gas-style lights set in the walls. Alex crept forward, passing a billiards room, a library (without a computer, he noted – and what kind of a library is that anyway?), and another sitting room, searching for anything that was more functional than decorative. Nearing the back of the hall, he came upon a staircase, grand in his opinion but probably merely passable for whoever lived there. Alex climbed quietly up, hoping that the first floor would yield more information than the ground floor had.

He was not disappointed. There were bedrooms, mostly vacant and dark, for guests he supposed. Lights were on in one and as he passed by, heart pounding, he heard the sounds of a TV series coming from behind the door. As he approached the lights in the hallway ahead, Alex ducked into a spare bedroom to collect himself.

What was he actually doing here? What was he really looking for? And what on earth was he hoping to accomplish? Alex thought for a second, then decided against it. Just find a study, an office, _something_, and he was sure he would find something that would give him his next step. So what if he was trusting to luck, he could always say he was a lost American tourist...

Before he could think himself out of doing anything, Alex dashed into the lit hall, thankful for the thick carpet that silenced his footsteps. Past what seemed a large room with the light on, then another large one, and was that a shower running? Quick glances to his right and left, further down the hall and...that _was_ a lock and keypad on the door.

There was no one around, but Alex didn't know how long that would last. He punched in 999. The red light flickered. He frowned, tried the country codes for Russia, the UK, and the USA, and started getting worried. He tried the area codes for London, Glasgow, and Dublin, all the while desperately trying to remember what Yassen had briefly mentioned about codes for St. Petersburg and Moscow. Alex tried to keep his calm, but even though there were no cameras that he could see watching him, he knew that every second he stayed here was getting dangerously close to too long. He pressed in 212, the area code for New York, and to his surprise the light blinked green and the lock opened with a soft buzz.

Alex breathed a sigh of relief and slipped through the door, quickly breathing a thank-you to God or fate or whoever made things tick for MI6 agents, and closed the door. After confirming that the room was empty as he'd expected, he took out his cell phone and used the light of its screen to navigate to the desk. He quickly started riffling through the papers on top; something about oil, charts and graphs showing 'productivity up' in cheerful fonts, an invitation to a theatre show, a serviette with a woman's email address and a smudge of lipstick, more Financial Times type articles, and a printed out email or two that didn't seem important.

Alex moved on to the desk drawers, which were unlocked, and found the top one a haphazard array of office equipment and scraps of papers. The next one was slightly better organized, though a lot of it seemed to be personal correspondence with the man – Joseph Illyich, Alex had found – and his extended family.

Come on Alex, the boy thought, there has to be something here. You don't have lasers in your yard if you're a nice businessman. Now, where are you hiding, ,and what are you?

Too late, Alex heard the humm of the lock opening. The light flicked on a split second later and Alex, temporarily blinded, had only an instant to do the first thing that came to mind and duck under a desk. Great, he thought, weeks of SAS training and all I can think of to do is the same thing a six-year-old caught with the cookie jar can.

A bullet whizzed through the fine mahogany just to his right, and Alex stopped making comparisons with himself and a six-year-old. At least nobody shot at them. But he had nowhere to go, and he really, really did not want to get shot again, or even shot at.

"Stop!" he yelled, pitching his voice higher than usual. "Please, don't shoot!"

"Show yourself now!" a thickly accented voice commanded, and Alex didn't see how he could do anything but reply. Slowly, he stood up, wishing Smithers hadn't taken the tranquilizing dart out of his phone design. He found himself facing a 9 millimeter held by a man in uniform – security guard, he guessed – two meters away. Behind him was the man he recognized from the photo on the desk, a gray-haired, slightly stocky man who nevertheless looked as if he had been an athlete in his day. Joseph Illyich. Alex slowly raised his hands above his head, belatedly realizing he was still clutching some of the man's emails.

"I'm a lost American tourist?" he tried.


End file.
